


A Month of Memories, Misery and Mayhem

by ThisisVenereVeritas



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bad Jokes, Implied Charles/Pickles, Implied Relationships, Multi, One Shot Collection, Swearing, implied Nathan/Abigail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 06:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26847067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisisVenereVeritas/pseuds/ThisisVenereVeritas
Summary: A collection of Kloktober prompts, starring the boys. Some will be general, others will contain ships. There will be additional summaries and warnings in the notes.
Relationships: Magnus Hammersmith/Skwisgaar Skwigelf, Magnus Hammersmith/Toki Wartooth, Nathan Explosion/Skwisgaar Skwigelf
Comments: 13
Kudos: 32





	1. Family

**Author's Note:**

> Day 4: Family 
> 
> Summary: This is basically a bunch of headcanons I have for Nathan and his father. 
> 
> Warning: language

When Nathan was three, and his mother was tired of trying to convince him to sit still or risk getting cut by the scissors, his father walked in and snatched them up, hoisting them just above her reach. Nathan saw the attractive glimmer of the smooth steel, but instinctually recoiled when his mind drew up memories of the sound it made when it cut through his hair, and that god-awful sensation of freshly cut trimmings against his skin. Short bristles. Sharp, irritating, and they stuck to him even after his mother attempted to wipe it all away. But as he withdrew, he heard his dad tell his mom “no more of this,” and to “let the boy be,” and even though he couldn’t look up, listened in on every word, absorbing it all to memory. 

“He clearly doesn’t like it, Rose,” his dad continued, ignoring the worries and pleas of his overly concerned wife. “I ain’t worried. You see this boy? Don’t look like a damn girl to me!”

“But Oscar.” 

“Let the damn boy be, Rose,” his father said, keeping his voice solid and firm. Strong. Controlled. Though Nathan couldn’t bring himself to meet his father in the eyes, he caught glimpses of his smile in his peripheral vision, always aimed at him, always there. “You want to rock long hair, son? Go ahead.”

And like that, his dad saved him from another dreaded haircut from his mother. 

When Nathan was six, and already so much taller than most boys his age, his father threw out his back, and couldn’t carry him across the dry, coarse overloading hell that led to the ocean. Days before the trip his mother warned him he’d need to walk across the sand, that it was only for a short while, and would lead to the comforting splashes of cool, deep sea water. Briny, foamy ocean water. Salty and cold. Water that spoke a language Nathan understood better than English, that told him secrets he could only hear, and promises that, although he couldn’t comprehend, knew one day he’d fulfill. Although his father didn’t know this, he knew the water was important, and bought Nathan his first pair of boots.

“You gotta promise me you’ll make this work,” he said after shoving the boot on Nathan’s foot. Nathan remembered the comforting feel, the constricting, but promising protection hat ran up his legs. “You walk slow, no sand. You run, you’ll get sand trapped in there, and I’ll never hear the end of it from your mom. Alrighty?” 

Nathan could only recall providing his father an inquisitive glance. But his dad slowly nodded in return, interpreting his silent message, the hidden appreciation that only a father could decipher. And on the day of their trip, despite the stares, Nathan donned his boots and trekked across the beach: clumsily, but determined. His hands covered his ears most the way, senses juggling between the heat of the sun, the array of colors and flashes of people and their families making so many distracting sounds. Then the sand turned dark, soft and clumpy, and Nathan dropped it all when the sounds of waves consumed everything else. Once the ocean called, he removed them, mouth agape as he set forth barefoot while his mother crossed her arms, rolling her eyes at an overly proud Oscar Explosion soaking in another personal victory.

Then summer ended, and the school forced another private meeting between teachers and parents, and the adults did that thing where they mentioned Nathan by name, but acted as though he wasn’t entirely there. The one with the clipboard talks about his underachievement during first grade, while the other with the glasses insisted “this was for the best” and “Nathan needs special care.” Special care for special boys. His mother called him special all the time, but the way the teacher said it didn’t make it sounds the same. Certainly not when she talked about him like he wasn’t all there. Like he was asleep, in another room. But he was awake, and so was his dad, and his mother, though terrified of the terms they used, the tests they handed her, the frightening prospects they laid out, was also waking up to the bullshit.

“Now you listen here,” his dad said in a growl Nathan had never heard before. It startled him. Reached deep in his heart. Grabbed, mesmerized and inspired him. “You told me last year he was good for general education. Now you’re telling me otherwise? I don’t think so!”

His father slammed the desk, and while his mother gasped, Nathan remained astutely calm. The noise didn’t bother him, didn’t mess with his senses like it normally would. He remembered looking up, first at his dad, then at the teachers who expected him to act out, to get frustrated over his father’s booming voice, him calling them “the retards in the room,” and that “they were the real failures, not Nathan.” Not Nathan. 

“You put him back in class with everyone else,” Oscar said, standing up and dominating the scene with his oppressive build. “You want him to talk more? Put him with everyone else, dammit! But I’ll tell you what you won’t do: treat my boy like he can’t fucking hear every passive remark slithering out of your forked tongues!” 

That year Nathan became class president, and later attended the first of what would eventually become a long series of funerals. All in all, it was a very busy year, so much so Nathan found that internally mulling over these events simply wasn’t enough, and started muttering, growling and grunting them out–trying to recapture that _powerful_ boom–and in the process, seizing the delights of his ecstatic parents.

Just a few years later, Nathan discovered metal. Not the smooth, cool and attractive metal that he loved to hold, bend and melt under his father’s supervision; but that wondrous crash and boom, distracting bang and guitars shredding and tearing through notes, ripping and spreading them across the melody at a voracious speed, and meaningful lyrics that exploded with a brilliant energy. Nathan was all too familiar with it. What was often trapped in his head now took form in music, and once Nathan had the words in his possession, wanted to share and discuss it.

His parents were surprised by his new interest. They didn’t understand how something so rough, so loud and imposing could act as a blanket, covering him from the drowning sounds of everyday life. Try as they might, they lacked the mental prowess Nathan possessed, and only saw the genre as something loud and easily avoidable. They didn’t know what it was like to live it, to feel it in their bones, to have it shoot through their nerves twenty-four seven. To Nathan, metal came as natural as breathing.

Neither parent understood, but their love was there, and although Nathan was quickly approaching the age where he cared less and less for his parents’ opinions, often returned to the livingroom, to his father sitting in his worn, leathery throne, newspaper or beer in hand. Didn’t matter if the game was on, or if there was politics on the mind, and argument between parents, or some other boring adult thing. The man listened.

Nathan walked in, hands clasped tightly around his cassette player. Music blasted through his headphones, so loud it could be heard over the line of infomercials. His father raised his eyes above the paper, brows lifting in mild interest as Nathan pulled the cassette cover out from his khakis, practically shoving it into his face.

“Hey,” Nathan said. “Hey, dad?”

Mildly crossed-eyed, Oscar feigned ignorance at the cassette placed so close to his face. “What is it, son?” 

“Look at this,” Nathan said, wiggling the bright cassette depicting a pyramid and gruesome skeletal idol. “It’s the Iron Maiden cassette I got today.”

“I can hear it. A little loud, don’t you think?”

“Whatever,” Nathan said, yanking the cassette away from his father, fidgeting some as he stowed it back into his person. “It’s good. Supposed to be loud… Hey, dad.”

“Mhmm,” his father said, then folded his newspaper and let it rest on top of his lap. Nathan stood, tall and broad, brows permanently furrowed and eyes expressing a delightful combination of glee and rapid, wild energy. He watched his son, a large, massive form, eager to share all his world with him and everything else in between, whatever got caught along the way, and so much more. Oscar glanced at the empty couch beside him, and pointed at it. “Sit down, sit down. I’m listening. Tell me about your Iron Metal…”

Nathan was already headed to his seat when he paused to send his father a disapproving scowl. “Ugh, it’s Iron Maiden, dad,” he said, voice inflection on the rise over such a silly mistake. 

Chuckling, Oscar replied: “ _Right_ , Iron Maiden. Tell me about Iron Maiden, son.”


	2. Paling Around (MagTok)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in a AU where Magnus is alive. Toki takes Magnus with him to Mordhaus to spend the night, and Nathan finds himself discovering certain wounds never heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 5: Paling around 
> 
> Warnings: Language
> 
> Ship: Toki/Magnus

After a less than stellar performance at The Globe, of which resulted in the complete destruction of the historical theater and landsite, Nathan was plenty eager to get the hell out of England and back home. Shortly after their arrival at the Heathrow airport, the gang split up, with Pickles and Toki dropping off their respective guests at their assigned terminals, leaving the remaining three to wait by theirs. Then Pickles arrived not much later, and the four waited. And waited.

And after nearly _twenty_ minutes of waiting, Nathan got fed up, and he made Abigail order a dozen klokateers already hidden within the vicinity to go search for the dumbass. It took about six whole minutes of additional waiting and a half dozen klokateers to locate Toki in the next terminal over with his guest, Magnus Hammersmith, still talking to one another about dumb gay shit. It wasn’t the klokateer’s exact words, but it was all Nathan could imagine up as he struggled between the irritating sounds of jack-offs hustling through the airport, the flashing of a major display indicating which flights were ready, and those constant announcements detailing which one were delayed, or on hold.

With hardly any patience to his name, Nathan demanded over the dethphone that Toki get his gay butt back to their terminal, get in the dethjet, and stop being a stupid idiot and say goodbye to Magnus.

He was met with atrociously high-pitched whines.

“Magnus’ plane ams delayed,” Toki prattled through the line. “And the next flights to the States ams not for four more hours.” 

“Oh, real pity,” Nathan grumbled, adjusting his phone so it wasn’t as close to his ear. “Guess he’ll have to wait for the next flight.”

“But it ams sooo late,” Toki complained, forcing Nathan to further alter the position of this dethphone. “Nathans’, cans we-”

“No.”

“But–”

“No.”

“Nathan, Magnus can’t waits alones.”

“Yes, he can,” Nathan retorted harshly. “He’s literally spent several years waiting, biding his time, _alone_. He is a professional at being alone. He will be fine.”

Nathan heard something cracking on the other side of the line. People moving? Noises? Whatever the case, he doubted it involved Toki telling Magnus he had to go, and good luck finding a chair comfy enough to fall asleep on as he waited for the next commercial flight back to the States.

Then he heard Toki inhale sharply across the line. “But–”

“No.”

“But, _Nathans_.”

“No, Toki,” Nathan said, then looked over his shoulder at the remaining band members growing increasingly frustrated over the length of the call. Skwisgaar sent a “what ams taking so longs,” leer, while Murderface loudly bemoaned the stupidity of this entire situation. Pickles kept quiet, but Nathan could tell he was formulating a whole list of shitty complaints for the entire ride home. Nathan did _not_ want to deal with that. Then there was Abigail, arms crossed and telling Nathan an entire damn conversation in his head, asking if whatever he and Toki were arguing over with was worth it, if this was all worth it, because it was 3am in a crowded airport, and the dethjet with its heated cushions, Egyptian cotton blankets, champagne and all the available streaming services was less than a ten minute-minute walk away.

“Nathan, please,” Toki cried. “Can’ts he stays just for ones day? I promise he’ll be goods. He was goods during the entire stays at the hotels and your performance.”

That was debatable, but by this point, Nathan was done trying to argue. “Fine!” he groaned, smacking a hand across his forehead. “Fine, just…get your asses over here before we leave without you.”

“Oh wowee, really?” Toki said. “Magnus cans spend the nights! Oh man, we ams goin to pals around and–”

Nathan could practically see the gross, neon-infused, sparkly giddiness that was Toki right now. God, he was already regretting this. Were it not for everyone grabbing their things and heading to the terminal, Nathan would’ve told Toki to watch it. Instead, he grunted a “I mean it,” before hanging up and using what energy he had left to convince himself this wasn’t a bad idea. Bad enough Rockso had minimal “free range” of Mordhaus, now Magnus was going to be allotted that same privilege. And with Toki? Ugh.

“This is going to suck,” Nathan murmured to Abigail as he caught glimpse of Toki running through the crowds, face aglow as he dragged an exhausted Magnus in his hand. “Yeah, this is going to fucking suck…”

* * *

The ride home was awkward. Even with the curtains separating Abigail and Nathan from Magnus and Toki, Nathan couldn’t shake off a strange feeling as he listened in Toki whispering a bunch of stupid things to Magnus. He summed it up to them being all lovey-dovey, worried about Abigail’s comfort and wellbeing, but even after the two passed out in their seats, and Nathan walked passed to take a leak, he still felt off when he noticed Toki leaning so close to Magnus. He figured the remarks between bandmates, semi-cruel jokes aimed at the two and their curious relationship, would put the anxiety at ease. Instead, Nathan grew warier, and the closer they got to Mordhaus, the more apparent it became that there was something wrong about this.

Once they arrived, the first thing Abigail issued was an in-depth search of all of Magnus’ personal belongings. It didn’t seem to matter that Magnus had all his crap was X-rayed during customs (his luggage was not allotted the same privileges as Dethklok’s), or that Toki insisted there was nothing _too illegal_ on their persons; neither Nathan or Abigail were willing to humor the idea of Magnus walking freely around Mordhaus, at least not without some peace of mind that he at least didn’t carry anything sharp on him.

Once that was done, Abigail had him processed, escorted into her office with the company of several armed klokateers, and went over the rules he’d adhere to while he was a guest. Nathan stood at the doorway, shoulders raised and arms crossed as Abigail’s assistant handed Magnus a contract he’d have to sign before leaving.

“This will give you access to main rooms,” Abigail stiffly murmured, keeping a clean face only because Toki was in the room, practically jumping with delight. Nathan was sure if Toki were elsewhere, she’d have every klokateer aiming some kind of weapon at Magnus.

Abigail watched Magnus stare complacently at the contract, lips a thin line as he read over the finer details. He provided his signature, then handed the contract to the assistant, who then turned it in to Abigail. “Right,” she said, then pulled a few additional sheets from the drawer. “This is our… _special_ guest contract. Form C and D. Signs these, and you’ll have access to the lower restrooms, the sauna, and you’ll be able to enter and leave Toki’s room freely–”

“What?” Nathan interrupted.

“Oh, wowee!” Toki rushed up to Magnus’ chair, grabbing the top and hovering excitedly as Magnus signed the additional contracts before handing it back to the assistant. The second the sheets ended up in Abigail’s hand, Toki hunched, resting his chin on Magnus’ head. He dropped his arms, wrapping them around Magnus’ neck as he happily proclaimed, “We ams going to have a sleepovers!”

“Sleepover,” Nathan whispered to himself, suddenly turning disgruntled. “In _your_ room?” He couldn’t figure out why, but the idea of Toki and Magnus alone, in Toki’s room, left him very uneasy. 

“Well, duh!” Toki said, turning and making a slight face at Nathan. “Where else woulds we haves it… _unless_?” His eyes lit up, practically sparkled, and Nathan regretted ever bringing up the question. “Nathans, cans we all hangs out together in the living rooms? Like a reals sleepovers with blankets, and movies and–”

“No.” Nathan shook his head, appalled at such an idea. “ _God_ no.”

Magnus leaned his head back just enough to catch Nathan scowling at the two of them. 

“Oh, well, cans we at least haves full access to the kitchens?” Toki asked, pouting innocently at Abigail, who could only raise a brow at the question. He smiled at her while Magnus debated whether to leave his seat now, or risk letting Toki push more buttons. Judging by number of lines spreading across his forehead, Nathan figured the former.

“Why does he need access to the kitchen?” Abigail asked, sending a testing glance at Magnus, who only shrugged in response. 

“For mornings, whens we makes breakfast,” Toki chirped.

The answer made Nathan visibly cringe. Skwisgaar had his “guests” make breakfast for him. Or midnight snack. Or, just…cook naked in front of him after an intense session. Or before a session. Whether Toki understood the implication behind why those guests threw sausage on a pan was beyond Nathan, and he quite frankly didn’t want to know. 

Luckily for Nathan, Abigail would not bend. “Let’s discuss adding more rooms in the future,” she calmly stated, earning a small frown from Toki, and an inward sigh of relief from Nathan. “Why don’t you take Magnus to your room–”

“And leave the door unlocked, _and_ open,” Nathan added.

“–and I’ll call two servants to carry your luggage,” Abigail added, speaking up to cover the grunts and snicker shared between Nathan and Magnus. Once the two were done, she waited until Magnus stood up, then hesitantly tacked on: “…Mr. Hammersmith.”

“Oh, thanks you, Abigail,” Toki said, running around her desk to catch her in a hug. “I promise we’ll bes very goods tonight, won’t we?” Toki turned, facing Magnus, his smile practically reaching his ears. 

“Of course,” Magnus replied, returning Toki’s smile with one of his own.

Nathan had seen that smile before. Many times, back when Magnus was still in the band. It was a smile he associated with trickery, schemes and backstabbing. A smile Nathan couldn’t trust.

He remained standing by the door, watching Toki practically yank Magnus from his seat to lead him out of Abigail’s office. Nathan took a single step to the side, giving just enough space for Toki to slip by, but stuck his arm out right as Magnus attempted to do the same. 

Behind Magnus, Abigail sighed. “Nathan.” 

“Something the matter, Nathan?” Magnus stood where he was, keeping a straight face as he patiently waited for Nathan to step aside. Nathan glowered, face scrunching and waiting for Magnus to say more, to do more, but only received a few pokes from Toki standing behind him.

“C’mon, Nathan,” Toki whined.

Nathan grumbled. In front of him, Magnus put on a pleasant smile and said, “Yes Nathan, you don’t want me to leave poor Toki waiting, do you?”

“Guess not,” Nathan grunted, earning a short nod from Magnus. A second passed, and Toki poked Nathan again for him to move aside. Nathan blinked, feeling a steady weight press against his chest. “Well then, I’ll be seeing you around, Magnus,” he said, and made damn sure it sounded nothing short of a warning.

“Alright then,” Magnus responded coolly, giving no sign that he took it that way.

Nathan lowered his arm, stepped aside and let Magnus and the two klokateers carrying his luggage pass by. He waited until they were nearly out of sight, then went inside the office, where Abigail quietly sat at her desk. Nothing had changed about her, but Nathan couldn’t get past how exhausted she appeared, how, despite her neutral expression, her lips seemed to hang low, and her arms and shoulders droopy.

“Try to be the mature one here,” Abigail stated. This was manager-Abigail speaking, and she sighed, rubbing her thumbs deep into the corner of her eyes. “I don’t like this anymore than you do, but remember where we are. If you think I don’t already have a small team of klokateers on them at all times, then you clearly underestimate my line of work. And me.”

Hearing that coming from Abigail was admittedly pretty hot, and it relieved Nathan of some stress as he tried to get over the idea that Magnus and Toki were definitely a thing… existing… in Mordhaus.

“You’re welcome to check on them,” Abigail said, standing up from her desk and collecting the signed contracts into one neat pile. “And you’re more than welcome to Magnus feel uncomfortable.”

Nathan flipped some hair away from his face. “Well, I wasn’t going to ask permission, but if you–”

“But also remember this is a big deal for Toki,” Abigail added, earning a groan from Nathan once she said it. Now it was just regular Abigail talking. “And Toki is part of our family,” she continued, which not only extended the length of Nathan’s complaint, but drastically increased its volume. She had to wait until Nathan was out of breath before quickly tacking on, “and it would mean a lot to him if you didn’t make a scene.”

“Ugh, fine!” Nathan frowned, pulling his lips inward as he looked away, arms crossed tightly around his board chest. “I’ll let Toki have his stupid sleepover.”

“Thank you, Nate,” Abigail said, smiling as she approached the large man, and offered him a single peck on the cheek, which, despite Nathan’s defiance, had no trouble bending a little so that she could reach him. “Let them pal around for a bit, and I’ll have him out the door the following afternoon.”

“Thanks Abigail,” Nathan grumbled. He tried letting her works sink in, taking it as solid advice from an incredible woman, but moments after she departed, Nathan found himself obsessing over those words. _Pal around_ …

Because that’s what they were, at least to the public. Pals. Friends who trusted one another.

An old, forgotten pain crept up behind Nathan. Not a real pain, but a memory, one he barely recalled, but still twitched and shuddered at once its presence grabbed his upper back, sending that sharp, cold sting deep into his strained nerves.

He didn’t trust Magnus.

* * *

Eventually, word got out around Mordhaus that Lord Wartooth had a special friend with him, and that extra care needed to be taken to ensure a successful night. Usual klokateer crap, but for the first time ever, there was debate amongst the band as to whether they should cheer Toki on, or just hope the two were just hanging out. Being buddies. Pals. Platonic friends. Skwisgaar was the first to make a few suggestive jokes aimed at both, earning his fair share of snickers and guffaws from both Pickles and Murderface, but once the laughter ended, ultimately admitted to not “givings a fucks about its” because, as far as he could tell, Toki was “askeksuals as fuck.”

Strangely enough, this made Pickles speak out, insisting that it didn't necessarily mean there wasn’t anything going on between the two, just that it wasn’t Toki’s top priority.

“Not that I think any of that shit is real,” Pickles quickly defended himself, before anyone could dare question if he cared enough about Toki, human sexuality, or long term relationships. “Jus’… they could still be, _y’know_?”

“I don’t think so,” Murderface chimed in. “I mean, have you seen Magnus? Guy is old as fuck! And he’s got one foot in the grave already. You’d have to be blind to even think about–”

“Can we not have this discussion?” Nathan asked, frowning at the three. 

“Oh, sorry,” Pickles said. “Yeah, that’s probably inappropriate.”

“Damn right, it is,” Nathan replied. “It’s also gay as hell.” He picked up the remote and flicked the television on, flipping through channels until he stopped at an image of a bloody crime scene. He dropped the remote to his side, reclined in his seat and focused in on the drying blood that stuck to the carpet, along with the dreary narration describing the horrors.

Less than a minute later, Skwisgaar turned to Pickles and asked, “Does you remember if Magnus ever brought ladies or homos home?”

“Not that I can recall,” Pickles muttered back, which probably would have been more effective were it not for the fact that Nathan sat in between the two. “The guy was pretty flaky. Very “one and done,” if you catch my drift.”

Skwisgaar pursed his lips together. “Hmmm. I don’ts know how I feels about that.”

“About what?” Pickles asks, leaning over and getting partly into Nathan’s line of vision. “Magnus being flaky, or the hookups?”

“Wells, both to bes honest,” Skwisgaar confessed with both palms open. “Tokis ims very demanding. Very skociable. He ams needy big babies, and–”

Nathan grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. He pushed it past thirty, then forty, fifty, sixty…

“Uhm, Nathans?” Skwisgaar asked aloud, eyes squinting and hands raising to cover his ears as the hanging televisions above blasted various shows at increasingly painful volumes.

“Nathan, yer bein’ really rude right now,” Pickles yelled out.

“Holy shit!” Murderface screamed. “I can’t hear myself think! Turn that crap down!”

Nathan couldn’t hear himself think. The televisions were all blasting different sounds, various and distinctive stimuli that loudly collided with the many thoughts and anxieties that were building within. A music video and flashing red lights mixed with Nathan wondering why Magnus had to ruin everything good, and a scene of someone slicing wet, too-ripe tomatoes intermingled with Toki rubbing his damn face against Magnus like he was a stuffed bear, and then there was the verdict guilty and the gavel echoing across vast ocean of worries and concerns that were coming to a rise.

For a long time now Nathan didn’t consider Magnus a threat. They had powers. Magnus fucking died, and got a one-up _because_ they had powers. Magnus owed his life to Toki, was wracked with guilt, and was the embodiment of a pathetic piece of shit. Toki could technically kill him if he wanted… _well_ , Toki was always capable of accidental killings, but if he wanted to, he could literally wipe Magnus from existence. That alone meant something. Nathan shouldn’t be worried about Toki. If anything, he ought to be worried about Magnus. Magnus. The guy that kidnapped Toki. That betrayed the band. That stabbed him in the back. That–

“Dood, you ok?” Pickles asked, snapping a finger in front of Nathan.

Nathan jerked back, bringing his hands up to his ears, but then realized it was silent in the living room, and that everyone was staring at him.

“Uhhh.”

“You, uhms, kinda blanketed outs on us,” Skwisgaar said, sounding a little concerned. “Likes you were highs. Only, I don’t recalls you takin’s anythings?”

“Real talk though, are you on somethin’?” Pickles asked, leaning close to examine Nathan’s pupils. “And if you are, can I have some, please?”

“Ugh.” Nathan pushed Pickles away and stood up. He glanced at the three, hands forming into fists as he tried, but failed to process it all. “I’m going to check on Toki,” he grunted before stomping off.

“Sounds kinda high to me,” Murderface commented as Nathan turned a corner and left.

Hot. Boiling. Magnus. Magma. Nathan read the words reaching up his veins, searing his nerves as he continued deeper into Mordhaus, his imposing form causing a massive rift between any unluckily staff members unfortunate to be traveling in pairs. Anyone who didn’t notice Nathan right away was practically pummeled, trampled over as he made his way deeper inside the fortress.

Anger. This was anger, but it was so much more. Something far greater.

Magnus. Hot, boiling magma filled with hate. But also rocks. Rocks that cooled into sharp, rigid shapes. Painful rocks that Nathan never had to concern himself with, because they were always so far away. Until now. Now there were rocks everywhere. Sharp, pointed ends no matter where Nathan turned, and it seemed like Pickles and the other didn’t notice their agonizing presence. Well, everyone except Toki. But Toki jumped over these rocks, skipped and danced around them like it was no big deal. Or maybe he just didn’t mind the pain of each step, and happily trekked across them like it didn’t hurt, didn’t make every step and inhale sting from the memories.

Nathan didn’t get it. He couldn’t get it.

He stood just feet away from Toki’s door.

Thankfully, the door was open, and judging by the sounds, Toki was playing some stupid video game with Magnus. Too hard to hear what it was. Music suggested a fighting game. Toki’s cheering. Too many thoughts, too many other distractions.

Nathan exhaled, letting out some of the static that filled his lungs, then inhaled the warm, stale, coppery air infused with the deaths of past gears. He tried again, and again until he thought he was calm enough to proceed, and even as Nathan approached, reminded himself who the god was, and who was the mortal. He was invincible. Magnus was not.

“Hey, Nathan,” Toki muttered, concentration aimed at the screen. He sat on the floor, legs crossed and back hunched over the white Wii controller.

Nathan lifted his head, catching Magnus resting at the foot of the bed, attention juggling between the action taking place on the screen, hands scrambling over his own controller, and now Nathan’s domineering form exiting the shadows and slowly looming closer. Nathan took it as a sign Magnus was unprepared, and continued further, until he stood right behind Toki. His eyes were on the screen, at the travesty of a brawl taking place, but he sensed Magnus less than a foot away, tense and unfocused, and somehow lacking any dextral skills when it came to video games. As angry as he was, the discomfort shared between them was oddly cathartic. Not as soothing as he preferred. There was a still, distinct prickle, a sharp sting he couldn’t escape from.

“Having fun?” Nathan asked, question aimed at the two.

Toki answered first. “Oh yeah. We ams playing Smash Bros.”

If by playing, Toki meant absolutely destroying the two CPs, while Magnus’ character fucked off down a ledge, then sure.

“Rough,” Nathan commented, tilting his head and barely casting a glance at Magnus coming to accept yet another quick death. It was that acceptance that stirred the rage in Nathan, and made him squat down besides Toki, and asked, “got another controller?”

The game paused.

Nathan grinned. Magnus closed his eyes as Toki happily exclaimed he did.

“One seconds!” Toki crawled to the bed. He rested a hand on top of Magnus’ leg while the other fished for a controller underneath. The contact, reflexive and performed without a single thought, made Nathan twitch. The rocks were there. All over the room. Toki brought the damn source of it all here, and now Nathan was surrounded by it.

Smash it, he thought. Break him down. Show him how you really feel about him being here. Bringing all that pain back. Those memories. But Abigail’s voice rang clear, and as stupid as it was, Nathan had to agree with her. Just because he couldn’t handle the pain, didn’t mean he’d ruin it for Toki. 

“Here you goes, Nathan,” Toki said, waving the controller in front of Nathan. Nathan snatched it up, hellbent on giving himself the most satisfying ass-kicking he could get away with without pissing off Toki or Abigail. “Goes easy though, because Magnus ims still learnings how to plays.”

“Huh, never would’ve guessed,” Nathan remarked as Toki exited the battle. Despite Toki’s constant moving, Nathan could see Magnus staring right at him, trying to make sense of what was going on, and why. Nathan leaned back, resting a hand on the floor and allowing Magnus to take full view of him, inviting him to analyze and come up with whatever bullshit his mind would fathom. Nathan knew Magnus would come up with nothing.

There was no plan. 

* * *

During Nathan’s third victory in a row, he recalled a time where Magnus and Murderface stood beside him, their cheers somehow superseding the headphones he donned, the loud music crashing into his eardrums and covering it all up, all except his friends. Weird how tolerable someone was if you liked them. There was a time where Magnus was tolerable, enough that Nathan overlooked the mood swings, the occasional cold shoulder and near constant rash decisions, and instead focused on the favors. How favorable was it to have a friend ten years his senior! To get snuck into an arcade after family hour was over, being handed drinks and getting piss drunk, and learning how to handle the flashing dance lights long enough for Magnus to show him the ropes of Mortal Kombat.

Nathan kicking Magnus’ ass at the game should have been perfect. After all the times Magnus beat him playing those ancient fighting games, the series of beatdowns should have left him feeling good. Watching Magnus needing to be reminded how to hold the world’s stupidest controller should have been hilarious. Twice, Magnus shifted the controller, hands slipping over it, and each time several gay jokes filled Nathan’s mind, each insult funnier than the next, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Toki teasingly suggested Nathan and Magnus should team up, and maybe Nathan would be better at teaching Magnus how to play than him, and each time an inkling, a single star that flickered across the vast blackness of their shared past, lit up in Nathan. He almost considered it. Wanted to get over the anger and confusion he was sure wasn’t totally related to Toki and Magnus being stupid, gay and happy together, but _was_ somehow, but was also something else?

“Okays, Toki ims going to piss, maybe gets a Capri Sun,” Toki said after his loss. He stretched both legs out before jumping up, leaning back and extending his arms out before giving a short yawn. “You guys wants anythings?”

“Let me go with–”

“A surfer cooler for me, wild cherry for him,” Nathan replied over Magnus. He looked over his shoulder, spotting Magnus staring right back at him. “You like cherry flavored stuff, right?”

“Yeah, he does,” Toki answered for Magnus.

That didn’t bother Nathan, not when he turned and saw Toki smiling at him, looking dumb as hell, but happy. He was elated over such a small, insignificant thing, a simple commonality, shared knowledge between friends. Two friends who happened to know the simple delights of another friend. Ex-friend. Magnus wasn’t really a friend anymore. Just a burden Toki dragged around. A burden he liked. A burden Toki cared for and begged over the phone to take home to spend their day playing stupid video games. How could he do that, after everything Magnus put him through? What he put Abigail through? What he did to him–

 _That_ bothered him.

“Okays, tries not to have too much funs without Toki!” 

Toki happy? Gay as hell, but that was fine. If Toki was alright with it, then whatever.

But with Magnus? No. That wasn’t ok. Magnus didn’t deserve to be alive, much less inside Mordhaus, being catered to and given access to Toki’s room, their private rooms, their personal spaces… _his_ personal space.

“Well, Nathan?” he heard Magnus say behind him. “Here’s the chance you were looking for. Have at it.”

Nathan raised his head up. Toki was gone, having left some time ago to go get their drinks. Nathan briefly recalled hearing Toki, registering his voice and sounds of him scampering off. Everything after that was a blur. The character selection played its contagious theme song, and Nathan counted the time he had left. About five minutes? More if Toki got distracted along the way, which was likely. Nathan didn’t know. Couldn’t really care now that he was alone with Magnus.

Nathan sat upright, casting a harsh, if not outright cruel, glare at Magnus. He waited, expecting Magnus to toss his own form of silent shade, to glare or snicker or, _fuck_ , say something about this. Magnus only stared back. Frustrated, Nathan stood up, watching Magnus’ eyes follow after. The man did an amazing job hiding his emotions, but Nathan knew it was just a front. Staring at the useless, cloudy eye on Magnus' left, Nathan knew it was merely a ploy while Magnus remained on the defense, carefully determining each action he'd have to perform until Toki arrived to rescue him. 

“You.” 

Rage and pain and molten hot magma that was fresh and new. Nathan could feel it flowing forth and oozing out of his pores, but then there were the ancient pains that still haunted him. The memory of turning his back, of hearing his friend scream and stab him. Magnus hitting the gas pedal as he, Nathan and Skwisgaar drove down a near empty highway, swaying and swerving and casting out empty beer cans in their wake. Him crashing a fist into Magnus’ eye, hitting him repeatedly until there was nothing left but blood and a nasty concussion. The same Magnus offering an ear when Nathan arrived early from his date, broken and defeated. 

“Yes?” Magnus asked, sounding more distressed at the increasing pause. “Well, get on with it.”

“One second.” Nathan growled, trying to locate the words. The right order. Everything that was mixing. The good and the bad. “I…you…”

Magnus looked so small on the bed. Emaciated, tired. Old. Damn, he was old. Nathan tried not to think too much about it, but he wasn’t exactly at his peak. And Magnus was ten years older than him, a literal dead man walking, and it was made so much worse by the fact that Magnus hadn’t aged as well. He carried that worn look all the old, less fortunate possessed. Magnus didn’t have a personal masseuse, chiropractor, herbalists or range of trained doctors. Nathan did. He had everything and he was a god. What was Magnus, other than another’s plaything? And that should have been enough, but it wasn’t. Because Magnus didn’t deserve even that. He didn’t deserve Toki’s attention. He didn’t deserve to be alive. He didn’t deserve to be in Mordhaus, with him, and although Nathan recognized this, still felt pain, and couldn’t bring himself to say it, because there was something else missing.

“Uh-huh.” It was Magnus. Magnus waiting for him to say something, and growing less concerned being trapped with Nathan, and instead…

Nathan frowned, catching Magnus ogling him, his expression giving away what he was thinking. Throat dry, Nathan swallowed. He was taking too damn long to figure this out, and Magnus was looking up at him like he broke him. Like he was stupid, or something. 

“Don’t look at me like that!” Nathan warned, causing Magnus to inch deeper into the bed. “I’m having trouble…figuring it out.”

“Figuring what out?” Magnus asked, gesturing at himself with a hand. “You came here to tell me off, right? To tell me to fuck off?” 

If only it were that simple. Nathan had the power to make a common man cower, to lead him to death if he desired, and he couldn’t bring himself to face Magnus and tell him what was irking him. That it was so much more than him being friends with Toki. So much more than them being together.

“Are you telling me all this time you don’t know what to say?”

Nathan flinched, gripping the controller so hard he could hear the plastic heat and groan under his strength. He growled. “You know. I have. A problem with words!”

Nathan took a step forward, barking the final phrase out, and Magnus backed deeper into the bed, eyes opening wide as Nathan’s massive shadow cast over him. There was that immediate rise of power, that thrill Nathan got whenever someone he despised crumbled beneath him. It rose up into his chest, only to take a dive, sink past his legs, past the earth itself, and left Nathan hollow, empty and hurt.

“Yes… I remember,” Magnus murmured through his defensive pose. Nathan snapped his head down, locking on to Magnus and how his arms slowly lowered, legs stretching and sinking and sliding down the edge of the bed. “You…when you’re overwhelmed. You have a hard time putting it together.” Hesitant, Magnus dropped his shoulder, arms falling on top of his lap as his head dropped, hair cascading and covering his miserable self. “I remember now.”

What memories played in Magnus’ mind? What sort of reels did he have saved in his bank?

Did he recall all those times Nathan overlooked his shitty temper, his sudden tantrums that erupted from nowhere? What of the times things became too much for him, and it was Magnus–Magnus, of all people–who dragged Nathan out of it, reminding him where he was and to control himself. Memories of them playing, making music, debating over lyrics together? Instances of them sitting by the side of the apartment, soaking in the sun’s rays as they nursed lukewarm bottles of cheap beer and bet over who’d win the next game, and by how many points. Flashes of them playing “kill-marry-fuck” drunk as they tumbled and swayed down the beach’s boulevard, and while Nathan complained about wanting to visit Disneyworld, Magnus spun tales of a day when they would have so much money the parks would close in preparation of their arrival. That event. That event where, after weeks of patiently waiting for Magnus to come out of his mood, resulted with Nathan warning him he needed to relax, turning his back, and getting stabbed. Magnus stabbed him. He stabbed Toki, too, and even though Toki could forgive him…

The words finally arrived. “I…I don’t think I want you here.”

“Understandable,” Magnus replied with a weak nod. He peered up, good eye visible through the long curls that twisted like vines. “I’m sure seeing me all those times back in the United Kingdom–”

“No,” Nathan interrupted, voice booming over the character selection music. “That was fine. It’s here.” Nathen raised his arms, palms opened and aimed at the space they occupied. “I can’t stand to have you _here_.”

Brown iris chased after his large hands, trying to make sense of the limited gesture. “Here? In this room?”

Nathan frowned. “In my home. You here, with everyone else.”

Magnus being happy. Magnus being the joke. Magnus spending the night with a man he didn’t deserve. A friend he didn’t deserve.

Magnus bobbed his head. “You don’t like it,” he said, cracking a nervous grin as Nathan balled his hands into fists.

“I fucking can’t stand it,” Nathan answered, groaning each word, and fists clenching so tight he heard knuckles crack under the force. “I can’t stand… hearing everyone joke about you. How can they just act like you didn’t kidnap him… like you didn’t stab _my_ back?”

“Nathan.”

“I… remember looking up to you.” Nathan brought his fists up to his chest, balls aimed high and shaking at the wrists. “Before Pickles, you were the one who knew everything. You knew everything. And I trusted that about you.” 

“I’m sorry.”

Nathan scowled at the apology. “You stabbed me in the back!” he yelled, unleashing a burst of heated rage, pain, misery. Ancient wounds. Fresh cuts.

Magnus shook his head. “Nathan, you don’t know how–”

“ _You_ don’t know how much it still hurts,” Nathan spoke over Magnus’ second attempt. The older man pathetically ran his hands over his face, dragging them upwards as Nathan waited for him, waiting for those hands to slide past, his defenses to give and for Nathan to continue berating him. “Seeing him so happy around you. Him bringing you back here…hurts so damn much.”

“Nathan, I’m sorry I stabbed you.” Now Magnus was stumbling over his words. “I wasn’t myself. I was…”

Lurching forward, Nathan glared at Magnus. “You were you. Don’t give me that bullshit.”

Slowly, Magnus raised his head up, and Nathan could see just how terrified Magnus was. Of himself. Of Nathan. He was terrified of everything, from the moment Toki dragged him out of his assigned terminal, all the way up to entrapping him in a room he was too afraid to leave, not without Toki guarding him.

“I regret everything,” Magnus confessed, dragging in his bottom lip, and blinking heavily as he fought to control himself in front of Nathan. “I really do, Nathan. I know I fucked up. Can you…if you can forgive me…”

Forgive? What a loaded word. To forgive Magnus. To forgive an old friend who, all in all, did quite a bit for the band. And didn’t Magnus have a role in this whole prophecy? Was betraying the band not part of it? 

And wasn’t there a time when Magnus and him were just friends? Two guys that hung out, could get drunk or high, flirt and fight over women, talk it out, work it out?

Even now, as Nathan fought to hold on to that distinct anger, clung to that instant where he felt the screams tear through his thoughts, and the knife plunge into his flesh, he saw Magnus smiling at him, pulling him close and whispering things to tell the girl he’d been not to subtly eyeing all night long. There was Magnus paling with him, playing games and tossing a pillow and blanket his way and telling him to spend a night at his place because it was so late, and he didn’t want Nathan driving back to his apartment at such an hour, alone. 

“I want.” Nathan choked on the words, felt them lodge into his throat and get pushed out only because everything else was piling up. “I want to forgive you,” he said, and watched Magnus light up, lips parting and trying to form words that Nathan realized he wasn’t ready to hear. He shook his head, and saw Magnus sink along with him. Eyes open, mouth still agape at the vanishing promise of being forgiven, moving on and rekindling something he feared was gone.

It was gone. It’s over. 

“But I can’t. I won’t.” Nathan shrugged at both while Magnus continued to lower, hair spilling and covering him, handing supporting his head, but never properly shielding Magnus from the harsh truth. “I don’t think I ever will. I think…deep down…I’m waiting.”

“Waiting?” Magnus muttered.

“Waiting for you to get tired of Toki, or for Toki to get tired of you,” Nathan answered, earning a nasty look from Magnus. Nathan ignored it. “But, most of all, I’m waiting for you to betray us again. Like you betrayed me. Like you betrayed Toki.”

Magnus sneered. “I’m _not_ going to–”

“And how can I trust that?” Nathan asked, standing up straight and adding a few inches to his already terrifying stature. Magnus shrank underneath him. Cowered beneath him. Nathan pointed a finger at him, not reacting as Magnus jolted. “How can I fucking trust you, after everything you’ve done?”

There came no answer. Just the Magnus staring pathetically at him, eyes filled with regret and guilt, muscles and body lax from defeat. A lack of will. A loss. Magnus lost. He lost years ago, when he stabbed Nathan. When he broke into the apartment. Graffiti all over the walls. Snapped Skwisgaar’s guitar. Broke their trust.

How much longer until he broke Toki’s trust, again? How much longer till Nathan could sick a bunch of gears on him…?

It was so damn quiet, Nathan wasn’t even sure if the game was still running. He could only hear his racing heart, his veins pulsing, and every sharp exhale uttered by him. He wasn’t even sure if he had said everything on his mind, if there were still words hovering above, just out of reach. Surely there was more to it. Magnus in _his_ space. Magnus making him feel small. Weak. A child. And his stupid back, drawing some imaginary line where a stab wound once bled, and sending chills like thirsty roots into his muscles, flesh and bone.

“Exactly,” Nathan said through the pause, at the man who once drove him to the hospital after a broken bottle struck him in his face. The same man who hurt him. “You can’t…and you never will earn my trust again.” 

Nathan threw the remote down, letting it hit the floor with a loud _clunk_. Manus flinched at the sound, and Nathan felt nothing when it happened. He headed to the door. Nathan didn’t check to see if Magnus reacted beyond the sudden recoil. All that mattered was that he had his back turned on Magnus, and that he had nothing to fear of it.

Nathan stopped at the door. Back still turned, he said, “I want you out of here the second Toki has his fill of you,” and exited the room, avoiding any further confrontation, and leaving Magnus to wallow in whatever misery he induced.

The hallway was noticeably cooler, air fresh despite the taste of decay, and the steps smoother. Less rocks in Nathan’s way. The sharp prickle was still there, and he felt each step he took, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as before.

He found Toki just a second later, arms piled with chips and drinks.

“Hey, Nathans!” Toki called out. Nathan was thankful he left the door open, if only because it gave Magnus the opportunity to save face. Keep Toki ignorant of the situation. Keep him happy. _Someone_ needed to be happy. “I gots you Capri Suns!”

“Thanks,” Nathan grunted, reaching and snatching up his packet beverage, then proceeded to continue on his way back upstairs. “Well, see you later.” 

“Where ams you going?” he heard Toki ask.

He sounded suspiciously hurt, and it was only because it was Toki that Nathan stopped, put on a mask, and faced the younger man with a gentler disposition. “To bed,” Nathan lied, watching Toki pout a little at the news. “I, uhhh, got serious jet lag.” 

“But we was all havings so much funs?”

“I’m sure you and Magnus can manage to have fun without me,” Nathan replied, forcing a slight smile when he saw Toki’s eyes disagree, implore him to reconsider, to try one more game, just a few more minutes of them paling around. But perhaps it was the charade, the feigned attempt at letting the past remain the past, and maybe it was also Nathan showing up to play in the first place, and Abigail offering Magnus access to rooms he was too afraid to visit, that Toki seceded from any further begging, and gave short nod before wishing Nathan a lovely night. 

“Thanks for visitins,” Toki said, lowering his voice to a hushed whisper, placating the fantasy Nathan created just for the fool. “I knows you and Magnus has a past, but it was nice of yous to pals around with us...maybe we cans do it another times?” 

The smile he wore hurt to look at. Like blinding light in a dark tunnel, it stung more than it helped, and Nathan could only bear to witness it for a second before turning his back on Toki. 

“See you tomorrow,” Nathan said, and carried on without another word, only reaching to rub the icy sting that plagued his back.


	3. Drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After receiving a distressing call, Pickles ends up in a bar, his brother by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 7: Drunk
> 
> Warnings: Alcohol abuse; implied trans Pickles

All it took was a phone call. One phone call that left such an impact, it altered the events for the rest of the day.

It was barely past two, but it _was_ past noon, which was a good enough reason to end up spending the rest of the day trapped in a bar. Trapped because that’s the truth. Pickles didn’t want to be there, but ended up there, walking straight to the stool, and initiating his prison sentence with a shot. His prison was damn near empty. Bartender aside, there’s a few trucker-looking fellows, and some sad bastard stooped in a table in the far corner. There’s not enough to cover the sounds his budding spite, his burgeoning rage, so it grew, and with each drink, took form.

The beers piled on, one by one, starting with the cheap watery Miller and adjusting its way to the Red Trolley, the Samuel Adams and New Belgium’s, Guinness and the darker ales and spicy stouts that burned even the most tempered throats. Pickles wasn’t a fan of the latter, but it helped drown out the incessant clutter of passive remarks and building anxiety that had been on a steep incline since earlier this afternoon.

With a weighted arm, Pickles raised his index finger, calling forward the bartender and demanded through a crooked, red-eyed glare that he needed at least two more bottles to get himself through.

“Damn, lookit you.”

Pickles scowled, heaving a nasty sigh when he heard that voice penetrate his haze. He turned, staring at its terrible source.

Beside him, Seth sat, donning a clean suit, hair styled perfectly into place. He looked good, almost decent. He was certainly in better spirits. Seth leaned his head to the side, raising a glass of something overpriced on the rocks, in a mock cheer. “Drinkin it away like it’s goin’ outta style.”

Pickles waited until the tender returned with his drinks before commenting. “Guess the fruit didn’ fall far from the tree.”

Spoken under his breath, so that it was barely audible to him. But despite the space between the stools, Seth was still there, so close each inhale stung with that horrendous combination of cheap spray-on deodorant and knockoff cologne. Christ, what was his brother wasting his money on, if not decent cologne? And now, Seth was practically hovering over Pickles with that smug grin of his, wearing those thin, perked brows that always pointed to some ulterior motive.

“Good one,” Seth said, giving a nod. “Talkin’ ‘bout pops, right? You always been good wit’ the jokes.”

“Jus’ tellin’ it like it is,” Pickles said, staying on the side of caution as Seth continued to survey him, waiting for that opportune moment. Drunk as he was, Pickles wasn’t stupid. Flattery was never a good sign. It meant his brother wanted something, and couldn’t think of a proper method of harassment or victimization just yet. “You wanna explain to me why yer here?”

Seth snickered at him. “What? A guy can’t hang with his brother?” he jested, slapping a rough hand across Pickles’ back, with fingers roughly landing on the side of his chest. “That’s what you always wanted, _right_?”

Pickles refused to answer. The call from hours before replayed in his mind, and he hunched over, dragging a bottle underneath to meet his sinking face.

“Always wanted us to hang, y’know, before you started actin’ all weird,” Seth said, smiling at every word. Pickles cringed, shaking his head and causing several dreads to slide down his sweaty scalp. Beside him, Seth chuckled. “I still tried, though. Even though you couldn’t handle a joke, a prank or two.”

Pickles thought up a million different retorts. There was a difference between a joke, and being locked in a dark, cramped closet for hours. There was a prank, and then there was feeding him a milkshake laced with laxatives, and having his friends bang on the door as he sat helplessly on the toilet. It was one thing for Seth to perform the occasional offense, another when it became a weekly terror enacted in that shithole Pickles was forced to call home.

“But, ehh, goin’ back to fruit,” Seth started, lifting his head up and producing a smug grin that only further drove Pickles to finish the bottle. “Everythin’ I said in that call…”

Pickles slammed the empty bottle on the bar. “Yeah?” he murmured, wiping his bottom lip with a limp wrist.

“About ‘nother brat comin' along the way?” Seth continued.

Feeling sick, Pickles reached for the other bottle. “Uh-huh.”

“S’all true, Pickles,” Seth said. “I’m about to start a real nuclear family. Regular ol’ me.”

Even with the booze, the very idea of Seth with another child along the way made Pickles incredibly anxious. It was the last thing he could’ve predicted. The last thing he wanted to think about. One time could be accounted for as a mistake, but twice? 

“Lucky you,” Pickles commented, and felt his stomach flip. Over a dozen drinks in his system, and his heavy stomach managed a painful twist as Pickles envisioned that silent, glassy-eyed woman who spent her entire time distracting herself with a phone. Pregnant, again? With Seth, or was it another man’s? Did it matter? 

“For real,” Seth said as Pickles mulled over the likelihood of infidelity, of childcare, potential divorce, and where his wallet would lie in all of this. “I was startin’ to think I didn’ have enough on my plate…but fer some reason I can’t shake off this feelin’ of success. Like I won big, y’know?”

Pickles turned his stool so that it faced the array of bottles, casks and cases of unopened, top shelve alcohol. He wondered how much he could get away with drowning in before he passed out, or his liver gave out, or everything just came to a sinking end. Seth with a family. Seth with a wife and _two_ kids? Seth happy?

“Like, I used to think you had everythin’,” Seth continued. Pickles said nothing, only persisted in sloppily nursing his drink as Seth’s voice picked him like a scab. “I mean, lookit you! Yer a damn rockstar.”

Pickles lowered his gaze, only to catch a glimpse of his miserable reflection trapped in a bottle of half consumed Bombay Sapphire sitting on a lower shelf. Staring at his off-colored form, he spoke out: “I am.”

“An’ yer worth billions.”

“Well, it’s closer to a trillion these days,” Pickles muttered, dropping his eyes lower and resting them on his skinny legs, pants stained with grease and oil and whatever leavenings, be it peanut shell remains, salt or lint, that latched on to him since entering this miserable space. Aghast at his own form, Pickles closed his eyes, embracing the cruel spin of his drunken mind. He heard his brother go on about money, about his own net worth, and Pickles spun and spun, reeling at the thought of his brother’s growing family.

_He’s a regular jackoff, why does any of this matter? Why does it matter if he has a family?_

“And you got girls all over you,” Seth added, grin turning all the slyer as Pickles, still reeling, gave short nod. “Not that I can’t get any, cause I still do, _heh_. Don’t tell Amber, ‘aight?” He shoved a hand on Pickles’ side, keeping his composure even as Pickles flinched under his touch. “All them girls. Lucky fuck. You can’t even fuck ‘em, and yet yer hoarding them. Hmm, and you call me selfish.”

 _Can’t even fuck them?_ The thought stuck to Pickles in the worse way imaginable. Seth laughed, slapped his hand on the wooden frame while insisting it was all a joke. _Of course_ , it was a joke. Seth went on, claiming his allegiance to Pickles’, his support to _whatever_ he wanted to be, and if the broads didn’t give a shit, then it doesn’t really matter, right? _Right_ , Pickles? Seth nudged his brother again, and this time Pickles managed a short nod before the spinning became too fast, too intense, and he opened his eyes. Unrelenting and indifferent, Seth went on, suggesting their shared success, be it money related or not, was perhaps a result of their family name. And as he spoke it, Seth shoved Pickles a little too hard, resulting in his stomach churning, releasing a hot bulge threatening to crawl up Pickles’ throat.

_Why does it matter? You pass, right? You don’t even want ‘em around when it’s over…so why does it matter that he’s bringin’ it up in the first place?_

The lighting above flickered. All the booze in his system made an old lightbulb turn into a second sun, and Pickles wiped his crown with his sweatband, lowered it and discovered just how bad his anxiety and his increasing body temperature had become. Despite being drunk, he was shaky. A shaky, sweaty mess. Pickles lifted his head, spotted the colorful mosaic of bottles and casks blending together, top shelf and bottom fusing into a brilliant, but sickening amalgamation. All the empty bottles surrounding him, once medicinal in their purpose, now slowly turning into poison, rattled and fell, tumbling over the car and hitting the floor with loud, mind-throbbing crashes. 

Pickles’ already shot nerves couldn’t handle any additional sounds, outside forces assaulting his deteriorating sense of self. He let the bottle from his hand slip, and he covered his ears, tried muting the ringing that was already blaring against his drums, hitting his brain and making the spinning go faster, his brother’s chuckles louder, and his smile and power over him all the greater.

“You got fame and fortune, Pickles,” Seth whispered, but somehow injecting every word straight into Pickles. He shot straight through, voice like a damn needle, penetrating every orifice and reaching Pickles’ brain. “But me? I got something else. Something real.”

 _“Something you’ll never have…”_

_And then mom will call and remind you how far Seth’s gotten. Seth has a family. Seth gave her grandkids. You gave ‘em nothin’, yer a no-good, short drunk who can’t keep a girl if he wanted, can't knock her up, can’t do anything right… anything right…_

“Pickles?”

Pickle’s blinked, wincing at how dry his eyes suddenly were. Shivering, he turned his stool, and saw Nathan and Skwisgaar standing at the entrance of the bar. “Nathan?” Pickles said, wide-eyed and frowning.

Grimacing, Nathan looked around bar, appearing more on edge as he surveyed the dim lighting, the few sad-looking residents of the bar, and the vast amount of bottles and empty glasses surrounding Pickles.

Skwisgaar spoke up. “Habs you beens drinking alones for this wholes time?”

“What?” Pickles asked, swaying as he turned his head, and realized the booth besides him was empty. Sweat rolled down his shaking neck as he blinked, eyes constantly refocusing and informing him that no one was there. “Oh, I, uhhh… I guess I was,” he confessed, feeling a waft of shame cover and turn any exposed flesh a deep shade of red.

“Charles mentioned you got a call from your brother,” Nathan said.

“Ands we figures,” Skwisgaar tacked on, turning his gaze slightly and expressing deep concentration as he carefully figured his next set of words. “Wells, we figures maybe we should…talks about it?”

Dumfounded, Pickles didn’t know what to say. He glanced to his side again, _again_ saw no one there, and then back to Skwisgaar and Nathan. “What?” was all he could come up with.

“You know,” Nathan loudly proclaimed. “Talk about how stupid your brother was. When he called you. Your brother, Seth.”

“Yeah,” Skwisgaar complimented, suddenly picking himself up. “That is whats we means. Pokes fun of your douchebags brother.”

“And maybe grab a bite to eat.” Nathan scratched the back of his head. “It took us two hours to find you. I’m kinda hungry.”

“So, whats you think, Pickle?” Skwisgaar asked, shrugging a little as he shined a smile that lit up the bar. “How abouts we go gets some foods and makes fun of your assholes brother? Maybe send him gifts basket instead of checks?”

Pickles pulled in his bottom lip. Biting it, he made a final glance to his side, then let out a huge sigh. “That, uhhh, sounds real good, actually,” he said. A weight lifted from him, and Pickles sniffed. "Yeah, I think I'll do that." 

“Cool,” Nathan replied, lifting into a slight smile. “Let’s get the hell out of here, man.”

“Alright, doods,” Pickles said, cracking a heavy grin. He slipped off the stool, top half swaying and bottom working to find balance in a world that still spun. Thankfully, things weren’t so topsy-turvy, and once Pickles caught up with Nathan and Skwisgaar, found himself with stronger footing, a clearer mind, and with far greater company. 


	4. Abigail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail does what no one else has the common sense to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 10: Abigail appreciation day! 
> 
> Warning: Violence

It’s just before noon, and the sun is high above Mordhaus’ gargantuan frame. There’s a mild, late autumn breeze that only accentuates the lack of clouds and dreary foggy atmosphere. From the kitchen, Pickles, Nathan, Skwisgaar and Murderface enjoy some of the sunlight accompanying their elevenses meal. The warm light stretches across the counters, brightening up the room just a little, but not too much where it gets in the way of the kitchen’s gruesome design.

“What a lovely day,” Pickles proclaims before taking a bite of his sandwich, earning a collection of sighs, grunts and nods of approvals from the other three members occupying the table.

Nathan reaches for a croissant. “I don’t know about you guys, but I think I just want to spend today relaxing,” he says, already fantasizing a day filled with as little physical activity as possible.

“Oh, dood, I was thinkin' the same thing,” Pickles replies. “Like, maybe go outside for a while, and, y’know, enjoy nature?”

Finishing his glass of orange juice, Skwisgaar nods his head in agreement. “Ja, ands maybe takes a little hikes around the woods–”

“Oh, a hike would be wonderful,” Pickles says.

“Think I’ll play some video games,” Nathan mutters to himself as Skwisgaar and Pickles begin planning their day.

“There’s a book I’ve been meaning to read,” Murderface contemplates aloud as he stirs his cappuccino. “I’ll probably just, y’know, sit by the fire and crack that spine open. Get a few chapters in before meditating.”

Smiling, Nathan responds back, “Yeah, just feels like today’s going to be nice, quiet, and peace–”

“ _Ka-ka-ka-hellllloooooooo_.”

All turn to the kitchen’s entryway and spot the tall, neon pink and green and sour-smelling clown leaning against the doorway. There is a noticeable change in the room’s atmosphere and a jaw drop, lips curl, arms cross and Nathan growls as it suddenly dawns upon all of them that Toki had been missing for a few days now, and that _this_ atrocity standing before them was likely the cause. 

“Oh great,” Nathan openly grumbles. “It’s Rock–”

“Look who it is!” Dr. Rockso loudly proclaims, lunging into the kitchen with a bounce in every step. He jumps over to the table, taking an unwilling Murderface and Pickles into his arms. “Your ol’ pal Dr. Rockso: the rock n’ roll clown!”

He dips his head between the two men, grinning widely before turning on Pickles. His eyes go wide, and Pickles tries to recoil, but cannot back any further.

“And guess what,” he adds, leaning even closer to Pickles: “I got some fun plans in store for us, baby!”

“Oh, _hell no_.”

Everyone, Rockso included, turns and sees Abigail and her assistant standing by the entrance to the kitchen. She begins to rapidly shake her head, eyes going sharp as she makes her way inside, approaching with a sense of purpose none of the members of Dethklok had ever witnessed before.

“Nuh-uh. Not this,” she announces, walking up to the table. “You need to let them go, and you need to leave.”

Pickles lifts his eyes up to Abigail, sending her a silent thanks through strained pupils. Murderface lowers his, defensive at first, but offering a brief glance once he feels Rockso's grip loosen. 

“Uhm, excuse me?” Rockso asks, taking offense at Abigail’s demand. He lifts himself up, leans slightly, then places a hand on his hips. Pickles and Murderface express relief at the sudden release, and watch along with Nathan and Skwisgaar at the animosity rapidly building between their new manager and their unwanted guest.

“You need to leave, right now,” Abigail replies sternly, then nods at her assistant. “Call security.”

Rockso scoffs. “ _Suga_ r, do you know who I am?” Rockso sways his hips as he approaches her. Wide eyed, Abigail reaches for something in her pocket. Rockso lowers his head down to her level and, with a yellow-stained grin, says, “I’m Dr. Rockso: the rock ‘n roll clown. And I do–”

There is a sharp _hissss_ that fills the room, and the gang notices something pungent and noxious floating in the air. Then, there’s a loud, piercing scream from Rockso as he stumbles back, coming close to hitting the table, only to slip and fall on his side. The band all turn, looking over their respective shoulders as Rockso rolls on his side, crying and covering his smeared, greasy face with both his hands. Nathan looks up and sees Abigail holding a keychain with pepper spray attached.

“You stupid b-b-b-broad!” Rockso stutters between his pathetic cries. “How you gonna do Rockso dirty like that!” He peers through his fingers, red-eyed and watery. “I ought to just–”

Without warning, Abigail snaps her finger, and her assistant drops what he’s doing and kicks Rockso in the gut. The clown grunts, curling into a ball as Abigail kneels and yanks a bit of dyed hair from Rockso.

She makes a face as she dangles green strands of oily hair with her finger and thumb. Several more klokateers arrive. They see four of the five members of Dethklok residing over the table, Abigail with her pepper spray, and Rockso writhing in pain, and do the math.

“Oh, good,” she says. She offers the hairs to a gear. “I want his DNA on record, connected with the online heat seeking missile and the newly installed howitzer.”

“The what now?” Pickles mutters as he grabs his mug.

The remaining klokateers gang up on Rockso. Murderface sniffs, wrinkles his nose of any remaining irritants wafting in the air, and winces just slightly as a gear throws another kick into Rockso’s stomach. Skwisgaar takes a bite of crepe, not blinking as a female klokateer goes straight for the groin, earning another shrill yelp from Rockso. As Rockso cries for help, Skwisgaar turns to Pickles and asks if he’s still up for that hike. Pickles tells him to wait a second, then flashes a photo right as a klokateer throws a quick jab straight into Rocko’s nose, knocking the round, bulbous prosthetic off his face, and causing already weakened vessels from his real one to burst and spray blood from each nostril.

After a solid minute of uninterrupted beating, the klokateers start to back off. Nathan can’t help but think Charles would’ve tortured Rockso longer, but watching Abigail monitor the entire situation, straight-faced, is still a magnificent sight to behold.

Rockso wheezes. “You c-c-crazy b-b-bitch…”

“Anything else before we kick him out, Madam?” another klokateer asks.

“Yes,” Abigail says, sneering as Rockso rolls on his back, panting and continuing to smear his face makeup in a futile attempt to clear the agonizing pain burning his face. “Send him to Human Resources.”

Murderface gulps.

“Dr. Rockso’s g-g-gonna file a complaint,” Rockso whines before going silent, falling unconscious. Several klokateers grabs him by the arms and legs, dragging him up and out of the kitchen. There are stains all over the kitchen floor from where Rockso lay, and what disturbs the band members most of all was that blood made the smallest amount of the concoction now stewing in front of them.

“Oh, we’ll file something, alright,” Abigail remarks shrewdly. 

Just then, there’s a loud gasp, and, _again_ , the members of the band all turn and see Toki sluggishly coming forward, stopping the gang of Klokateers in their path by stumbling into them.

“Whats are you doings?” Toki says with a notable slur. His eyes rapidly blink as he reaches with his hands, feeling up his servants while clumsily keeping himself up straight. “That ams Rockso!”

“Oh, hey Tokis,” Skwisgaar greets.

Abigail groans, walking past the group and peeling Toki off from them. “Exactly,” she says, turning Toki around and dropping her stare down to his feet, slowly bringing them up as she grimaces at his overall state. She sniff his opened mouth, and frowns. “Toki, it’s barely noon,” she says, voicing her concern.

“Shoot, it’s almost lunchtime,” Murderface remarks, and finishes the last of his blueberry scone.

“Buts Rockso ams Toki’s friends,” Toki whines, swaying hand trying and failing to grab at the group of klokateer making the turn out of the kitchen, and into the long, dreary hallways of Mordhaus. His hand clasps, catching nothing but air, and Abigail shakes her head as Toki stares at his open palm in disbelief.

“Toki, we will discuss this when you are sober,” she says.

Toki goes wide eyed with a burst of anxiety. “Buts–”

She points to her assistant, who reaches for his walkie-talkie. “Until then, I’m going to have to ask you go to your room and sleep this off.”

Toki’s jaw drops. “Buts that ims not fair,” he says, voice raising and causing all four bandmates to flash each other a tired stare. He brings his hands up to his chest, shaking them into tight fists and face turning red. “No fairs! Abiiiiiiigaiiiiil.”

Toki cries out, and the remaining four members all shirk in annoyance. They’ve seen this play out multiple times before, and know this is where the real battle begins, and always ends in failure. Not even Charles who, at his prime, fought and held against the masked assassin, could effectively bring an end to one of Toki’s drunken tantrums.

They stare, expecting Abigail to cater to Toki’s complaints. If anything, she’s more likely to do it, because she already dotes on Toki more than Charles ever did.

Abigail stares up at Toki. “You will _not_ raise your voice at me,” she states with a firm voice.

The room goes silent. Toki is silent.

“I am not. Having. This discussion. _Now_.” Abigail states clearly, completely resolved in her position. “We will talk when you’re sober. Do you understand?”

Toki stares, jaw slowly shutting and arms stiffly dropping to his sides. His shoulders raise as he tosses her a nasty stare. Pickles is positive Toki’s going to say something. Skwisgaar is betting that Toki will double-down and drop to the floor and scream until he gets his way. But then Toki’s mouth closes, jaw tightens as he groans into it, and then stomps off without so much as a whine or a threat aimed at Abigail. Everyone watches as he storms out of the kitchen, turning the corner opposite of the one the klokateers escorting Rockso took.

Everyone is stunned. Nathan’s jaw drops once he sees Toki’s not coming back, and that Dr. Rockso likely isn’t going to be showing his face much around Mordhaus after this. Murderface watches a remaining klokateer mop of the grime from the kitchen floor, while Pickles breaks into a small, but pleasant smile. Skwisgaar has to cover himself, and crosses one leg on top of the other.

Abigail sighs, then turns and faces the men. “Well, gentlemen,” she announces, her expression far more at ease, but still carrying some tension just above her brows. “Dr. Rockso won’t be bothering us anymore.”

Skwisgaar snorts. “Ja, no shits.”

“You really jus’ kicked him out of Mordhaus,” Pickles murmurs in disbelief.

“And told off Toki,” Murderface tacks on.

“I can’t believe it was that easy, too,” Nathan comments.

“Of course, _why_ wouldn’t it be?” Abigail exhaustingly exclaims, shaking her head at Nathan and the gang. “What do you guys normally do when this happen?”

The band shares yet another glance at one another. 

“Yer kinda lookin’ at it,” Pickles confesses.

Abigail presses her thumb and forefinger into her eyes. “Unbelievable,” she says, then about-faces and heads out of the kitchen.

“Hey, Abigail,” Nathan calls just as she nears the entrance. Abigail turns, looking slightly worse for wear, but still carries herself, and harbors something fierce in her eyes. With a slight smile, Nathan says, “thanks,” and it initiates a series of responses from the band. Pickles mutters a “thank you,” of his own, while Murderface grabs his arm and stiffly gives a short nod. Skwisgaar brings his hand up, dropping all fingers except his thumb and pinky, then mouths the words “calls me,” before sending Abigail a complementary wink.

A mild sheet of rose tints her face, and Abigail exhales what sounds like a chuckle, then turns and heads out with her assistant to continue with her work.


	5. Playing Music (Nategaar)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skwisgaar's music has an effect on Nathan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 13: Playing music
> 
> Ship: Skwisgaar/Nathan
> 
> Warning: Language and implied sexual content

Nathan realized something was off when Knubbler came walking in with his hands twitching the way they did. Always a little difficult to tell when the man just finished taking a line, what with him lacking pupils and all. But there was something about the way his fingers shook. Made Nathan think of his dad whenever he got pissed. Hot, shaking hands. Hands forming into tight, fiery fists. Maddening fists. Electric, vibrating fists.

Judging by the rapid tremors, it must have been one hell of a hit. Some real good shit.

Knubbler stuttered over his words before welcoming the crew, and initiated the recording session with a complimentary shot. Nathan didn’t bring it up, figuring between him, Pickles and Skwisgaar, the job was already partly done, and it wasn’t like they hadn’t already engaged in some vices just before Dick Knubbler arrived.

Toki was asleep on the couch, and Murderface walked off after an argument between him and Skwisgaar about the background rhythms and what was and wasn’t acceptable. Regular shit. Nathan also didn’t feel a need to step in. He presumed Skwisgaar had everything under control, and proved Nathan correct once it was the bass’ turn to perform its section. Nathan reclined into his seat, watching Knubbler’s shaking fingers putting a Hitachi wand to shame, flicking and making rapid adjustments and capturing Skwisgaar’s composed and solid playing in bottled form. Nathan listened, closed his eyes, and drank in the sound. He enjoyed a solid minute before it was over, and when Nathan opened his eyes, he saw the water bottle that contained Skwisgaar's recording nearly filled to the brim. 

Skwisgaar leaned back, hand resting on the neck of the bass. “Wells, ams good?”

“Beautiful, baby, as always,” Knubbler commented hastily through various ticks and shudders.

“S’clean,” Pickles added. “Maybe a lil’ too clean.”

“You think so?” Knubbler asked, turning his head slightly at Pickles.

“Whats you mean, Pickle?” Skwisgaar asked, hesitating from removing the bass’ strap off his shoulder.

“Nathan, what do you think?” Knubbler probed without turning around. A good thing. Skwisgaar was already looking through the window, icy blue eyes piercing Nathan in anticipation for a compliment, or damn good constructive criticism. Without saying anything, he picked up the bottled recording in his hands, popped open the cap and listened to the hastened pace of clean, rapid flicks. Impossibly fast fingers that warmed each string, breaking through the thicker ones with a blasting force that caused each note to quiver under its wake, yet left each note crisp and tantalizes the ears. Those same, skilled fingers raced across the thinner string with such a delicacy, sending icy shocks and heated shimmers that, once it was over, Nathan was jealous it was Murderface’s bass that got to enjoy being played by such well-endowed hands.

“Well, Nathan?” Pickles asked, yanking Nathan from his current state of mind, and back to the uncomfortable stench of coffee, cigarettes and men. The air had that warm taste to it, stale and stuffy, and Nathan grunted a slight complaint before giving the bottle a gentle stir in his grip.

“Nathan, honey?” Knubbler inquired, wheeling his seat around to catch the man wearing a concentrated, but lidded stare, stirring the water and reactivating the bass’ part.

It played again, and with eyes closed, Nathan heard the fragments of the water’s message. Ice crushing and melting through Skwisgaar’s heated fingers, turning that otherwise frosty composure into hot, liquid lust.

Knubbler sighed. “Uh, Nathan–”

Nathan opened his eyes, only to send Knubbler a testing scowl. “Quiet,” he warned, then returned to the water.

It sounds good. Very good. Clean. Poignant. Heavy beats that Nathan can easily envision being welded into the rest of the accompanying chord. No, not right. Not welded, but flowed. Murderface’s parts needed to be smashed, repurposed and shaped to fit the message Nathan tried to send. This required no maintenance. It was a perfect image of what it was intended to be. Like the water that filled the container Nathan held in his hands, the rhythm, despite its repetition and simplicity, masterfully fit the mold.

Nathan opened his eyes, meeting Skwisgaar’s on the other side of the recording room. Again, those fierce, frostbitten orbs stretched and grabbed Nathan’s heart, but this time lacked the gentility from before. The man was waiting, silently demanding his response and approval before being granted permission to begin the next portion. Nathan dropped his stare to Skwisgaar’s hands, on the neck of the base and each string. If there weren’t so many eyes on him, if he had more time he’d linger on those hands longer, fantasizing about their artistry in the recording room, and beyond. The living room, late at night. Rec room, alone. Under the tub, when bubbles flowed. Under the covers, whenever. Purposeful hands. Musical hands.

The music was over, but the entire vision he was aiming for played in the backdrop of his mind. Skwisgaar stood, amongst the chaos and unorganized thoughts, the words that hung above Nathan’s head, just out of reach, and those words he had already collected in his arms and was still sorting through. Skwisgaar’s guitar played in the distance, an unstoppable, pure thing. Lighting. Ice. Thunder. Water. Skwisgaar was anything and everything Nathan needed him to be, taking whatever form he required, and blessing each song with a raging storm that made up his soul. God, it was good music. So good. Fucking good. Nathan blinked, staring deep and relaying that silent message over, hoping that Skwisgaar could feel the booming thunder that was the heart every time he had the pleasure of being here, listening to Skwisgaar play those raw and wonderful melodies. Right now, Skwisgaar had played him the guitar, now the bass, and in about an hour, assuming no one bothered to wake Toki, would carry the rhythm as well. From within his mind, Nathan witnessed the three distinct parts, mixing and swirling and birthing a sound Nathan was convinced was too good for mortal ears. Maybe too good for his own. 

As Nathan finally parted his lips, he saw Skwisgaar tighten his, pressing them together in anticipation, though Nathan had a feeling he knew what he would say.

“It’s good,” Nathan said, ignoring Knubbler as he sighed, when Pickles raised a pierced brow, expecting more. “Real good, Skwisgaar. I like it.”

Skwisgaar remained unconvinced. “Ands?”

Nathan checked on Toki’s status, and found him still tucked into the fetal position, mind elsewhere as he dreamed the day away.

“It’s, uhh, very smooth,” Nathan answered, feeling heat rise in the back of his neck. “And, well, it’s also…”

 _Just like you,_ he thought to say, but refrained. Nathan couldn’t think of anything gayer to say than that. But it was true. It was clean, clear and practically perfect. It was Knubbler barely having to do a thing, because just like the man the notes originated from, Nathan couldn’t find any real fault with it. Like Skwisgaar, the music was perfect. It was hot when it needed to be, subtle when required, but always sending a delightful shiver down the spine when it needed to stand out. And, _oh,_ how Skwisgaar’s music, his guitar playing, always stood out amongst the rest. It touched him deeper than anything else he had the pleasure to listen to. No shit ever came close. Nothing touched him the way Skwisgaar did, leaving him scrambling to find the correct words, the right metaphor that satisfied him, the exact feelings that erupted whenever Nathan focused on him.

 _Not her message_. The thought arose the moment Nathan completed his comparison, and was about to congratulate Skwisgaar on a perfect recording when it dawned on him that Pickles had been right all along. The message was imperfect. Nathan didn't notice right away because the message he heard was perfectly suited _towards_ him. It was a message made specifically with him in mind, and in its very composition, failed to reach its wider audience. His grand audience. This music was only for him, reaching out to caress him. Hold. Grab and dominate. Those few notes that desired to get close and whisper into his ear that hidden message neither dared to say aloud. Nathan bit his inner cheek, feeling heat race as he reinterpreted the message, glanced and saw Skwisgaar standing and staring at him expectantly. 

“It’s too hot,” Nathan blurted, earning a set of stares from both Pickles and Knubbler. He fought through the tension, the green and red darts aimed at him, and summoned the rest of what was weighing his mind. “It’s good sex after being trapped in a hellish tundra,” he said, and with both Knubbler and Pickles gawking at him like a madman, Skwisgaar safely covered his face to hide that bashful smile without question. It was actually worth it, because once Skwisgaar did regain his composure, smiled warmly at the compliment, soft lips pursing only then to let it twist and gnarl into a suggestive pout. 

“Nathan, babe, Imma need you to pick a better metaphor,” Knubbler said after a few seconds of silence.

Nathan blinked, tearing himself away from Skwisgaar to meet Knubbler with more strained, albeit disgruntled contours across his face. “What I’m saying is…” he began, hesitating once he picked up on Pickles’ questionable stare. 

Of course neither of them would get it. Hell, Skwisgaar didn’t either, and took the remark solely as a compliment to his art. There was no way he could explain himself, not without sounding crazy. 

“It’s…too good. For Murderface.” Nathan changed direction, returning to Skwisgaar, who had fixed himself and tacked on a more serious countenance. Putting on a frown, Nathan said, “You gotta try again. Make it–”

“Less hots, gots it,” Skwisgaar said, supplying Nathan a less than subtle wink before readjusting the strap and slipping his headphones on.

Knubbler cupped his hands and pressed them into his face. “Another take then,” he grumbled, sounding uncomfortably anxious. Everyone picked up on it. “You, boys mind if I step out for a bit?” he asked, pointing his thumb at the door. “I need to take a little break.”

No one commented, and Knubbler left the studio room to go find somewhere more private to take another line of cocaine. The moment the door closed, Toki snored, and Pickles turned on Nathan.

“Jeez, Nathan,” he commented, watching Nathan shirk in his seat. “Lil’ extreme there, don’t you think?”

Nathan grunted a reply. “I’m out of it, ok?”

“I’ll say,” Pickles teased with a nasty smirk. He eyed Toki resting on the couch perpendicular to them, then at Skwisgaar as he stood, waiting. Pickles leaned closer to Nathan, eager to whisper his complaint. “Dood, that was gay as hell.”

“Whatever,” Nathan murmured, sneering outwardly to get some point across with Pickles. He held on his cold, domineering persona, and Pickles eased back. Not out of fear. Pickles knew better than to take anything he said seriously, but comprehended whatever took place wasn’t worth the trouble.

Pickles lifted himself from the couch. “I’m gonna take a leak. See you in a bit.”

It was abrupt, and Nathan didn’t have time to formulate a reply before Pickles exited the room, leaving him alone with Skwisgaar and Toki. This time, Skwisgaar pressed both hands against the window, stepping on his toes to get a better view of the almost-empty room, and Toki passed out on the couch.

“He ams still asleeps, ja?” Skwisgaar asked.

“Mhmm.” Nathan grunted, and was pleased to see Skwisgaar remove and place the bass on its stand. Nathan remained at ease as the door swung open, and turned stagnant when Skwisgaar approached him, each step graceful and brimming with confidence. 

Skwisgaar took a seat beside him. “You means everytinks you saids?” he asked cautiously, with a hushed voice. His eyes were on Toki, but that simply meant that Nathan could focus on the long, blond locks, the supple curvature of Skwisgaar’s lips, and the less than elusive smirk they formed.

“Yeah,” Nathan stated, and watched Skwisgaar’s hair flow about as he turned, soaking in the compliment full force with glee. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Skwisgaar looked his way. “Real ballsies of you to says that out louds, then,” he replied, reclining back and resting both arms on top of the couch.

Nathan felt the tip of Skwisgaar’s fingers playfully tapping to some unknown song against his back. “S’true, though.”

“Ya’knows, it ems funny,” Skwisgaar said, flashing a white grin. “I keeps on pushing myskelves to meet your, _ehm_ , standards.”

His eyes fluttered, and each time it happened, Nathan wanted to slow time, admire the bounce and flash produced by long, golden eyelashes. Nathan wanted to liken them to strings, but figured it too obvious. Even if Skwisgaar liked the praise, Nathan knew he could do better. And Skwisgaar deserved better. 

“I thinks about you, sometimes, when I plays,” Skwisgaar added, voice louder, but still controlled in case someone suddenly barged in. Nathan was already in the process of holding in a smile from the comment, when Skwisgaar edged closer, long hair cascading over his shoulders, and eyes open halfway, forcing Nathan deeper into a corner. “I was thinkins’ about you thens,” Skwisgaar murmured. “When I was playins the musics.”

Heat erupted across Nathan’s grim face, parting his natural, thin-lipped frown, and replacing it with an earnest open mouth, and eyes that, while harsh, swirled and sang hundreds of different praises, all aimed at Skwisgaar. Nathan had suspected this was the case, the reason the recording could never make it past the demo, but hearing Skwisgaar admit to it removed all the offenses off the table. Nathan then noticed the rapid patter of fingers slowing across his back, pressing harder until Skwisgaar ceased his imaginary tune, and bringing with it a tender void Nathan couldn’t ignore or handle. That stimulation was gone, leaving only the electricity between them, and Nathan thought to make a move, but hesitated once he heard Toki make a sound. Skwisgaar dragged Nathan by the chin, back to him, and snickered. Again Nathan considered diving in once Skwisgaar started to guide him closer, but was crushed by the sound of a shaking, seizing hands scrambling to open the door. Both parted, with Nathan scooting to the edge of the couch, and Skwisgaar standing up and taking a few steps before turning to face Nathan. This time, Nathan welcomed the look of feigned annoyance, and Skwisgaar crossed his arms and threw in an additional contorted upper lip right as Dick Knubbler returned, shakier than before. 

“Oh, oh boy,” Knubbler said, walking past the two. “Alright Skwis, no need to be so upset about it. Just go in, do your thing and make it less…what was the word?”

“Hot–”

“Cleans,” Skwisgaar said over Nathan, saving him and appearing smug about it as he stepped forward, carrying himself proudly with each step. Nathan dropped his eyes to the ground, curtain of jet black hair covering him and hiding the effect that confidence had on him.

“Yeah, _one_ of those things,” Knubbler said, shaking his head and giving less of a damn than before.

Yeah, must be some real good stuff, Nathan thought, providing one single glance upwards at the pale man hoisting the bass up, full lips falling together, succulent and round, then tightening as Skwisgaar raised the neck up, fingers repositioning in preparation. Eyes on Nathan.

Real good shit.


	6. Preklok

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rent is due and Murderface is short on cash. Pickles has a plan to fix that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kloktober day 14: Preklok
> 
> I'd argue this is a one-sided Pickleface, but I'll let you guys be the judge of that.

Although it was technically fall, the week started rough with the last of the remaining summer weather hitting at full force. Monday was wet and hot. It rained all day, leaving the crew with the option to either stay inside the cramped apartment, or face the humid thunderstorms outside. Tuesday the mosquitoes wanted everything to do with the backwash left behind from the rain, and if anyone dared to open the door to catch some gentle post-rain breeze, was welcomed with an onslaught of bites and irritating bumps. Wednesday was particularly shitty because Murderface, a sweaty and bite-ridden mess, woke up late to discover that rent was due.

Rent was a sordid matter, a device that brought out the worst in people. Always due at the end of the month, when the lower income had even less to manage. Whether the band wanted to openly admit it not, they were rather poor. They were piss poor. There was always something to complain or gripe about when rent arose as well. Skwisgaar paid it upfront, always early, and would then proceed to bemoan anyone who dared to spend extravagantly before paying their dues, which happened more often than not. Magnus only offered his share when approached, and counted each bill carefully in front of Nathan before handing it over. Pickles, though not entirely new to the band, was unpredictable with when or how he’d pay for rent, but since his arrival, had always paid his fair share. 

Perhaps it was also his “still fresh” standing in the bad that also made Pickles the most laid back about the end of the month drama that came about: a lack of funds, followed by increasing humidity and want for air-conditioning that they couldn’t afford, the dry spell that affected everyone, the withdrawal that mainly afflicted one, and that sad fact that, between the five of them, there was barely enough to scrape by. The man usually held through, telling so-and-so they’d been through worse, or just reminding them in general rent was due, and would even manage to bring out the best in Nathan during through the worst of it, shaping him to be the calming force the band desperately required during the end of the month blues. Because Nathan hated rent. He had every right to, too, because the apartment was in his name, and if someone came up short, it hurt him first and foremost.

Unfortunately for Murderface, Pickles was missing in action when the notice came in, off on some wild adventure. When it did come in, Murderface checked his sad, stained velcro wallet only to find a single twenty and a few ones. He silently panicked through his gap-toothed smile, lying straight to Nathan as he handed the insufficient offering that he needed to make a quick trip to the bank before handing him the rest.

“Well, make it quick,” Nathan grumbled, less than enthused by the situation. “Or, y’know, scrounge up something by the end of the week… _whatever_ …”

If William didn’t know any better, he’d guess that Nathan read right through the charade, and assumed he was buying time until the final hour, and that there was a good chance this would be yet another month where _someone_ would have to submit some additional funds from _somewhere_ to make up for it. 

“Oh, sure, dude,” Murderface exclaimed with only a slight lisp. It was an accidental flub that made him sound far more confident than he actually was, and once he tucked his wallet back into his shorts, made a mad dash out of the apartment, already formulating a list of back-up plans.

He found Skwisgaar sitting outside, legs dangling from the walkway as he enjoyed the remaining shade before the sun rose too high, sweltering everything in its unforgiving path.

“Hey, uhh,” Murderface began, noting how Skwisgaar reacted to his impromptu greeting with the same caution one would when being approached by a pest, such as a rat or roach.

“I don’t have extras moneys, Murderface,” Skwisgaar began, jumping straight to the point and giving no time for Murderface to properly recover once he’d been found out.

“Ay, ay, who said anything about money, now?” Murderface asked with a nervous laugh, but Skwisgaar didn’t bother playing into it.

“Jus’ so you knows, Magnus lefts earlier this mornings,” Skwisgaar added, glimpsing over his shoulder to see Murderface’s developing sneer. “Wonts be backs for a whiles.”

Murderface turned defensive. “What makes ya think I wanna talk to him?”

Unaffected, Skwisgaar answered: “You dids this last months. Asks me for rents, then you bothers Magnus when I tells you I don't habs extra.”

Murderface rolled his eyes. “Oh, _one_ time–”

“You dids it in March, Aprils, Junes and August,” Skwisgaar dutifully noted, the ends of his lips twitching and threatening to turn into a smirk when he caught Murderface’s own expression embittering at the reminders of his past follies. 

“Yeesh, looks who’s keeping track of all these major dates,” Murderface grumbled. “Seriously, who does that? Can’t remember to take out the trash, but you know all the times–” 

“Murderface, leave Skwisgaar alone and make some damn money!” Nathan yelled from inside the apartment. Murderface grimaced, back hunching and arms dropping at the sounds of heavy footsteps making their way to the front door. Nathan peered through the opened door. “Christ, man. Get your shit together. You have until Sunday. Now go.”

“Yeesh, fine,” Murderface said. “Wasn’t even asking for money, but ok…”

Well, Skwisgaar was out of the picture, but that didn’t mean all hope was lost, at least not to Murderface. Magnus was rough around the edges, but always had a soft spot for him. Best of all, when it came to earning a quick buck, Magnus always had a method. Sure, it usually involved them pissing someone off, trapping them into a corner and proceeding to beat them senseless and take whatever was on their person, but you can’t fault an idea if it got results. If Murderface was in better shape, he’d do it himself, but he wasn’t, and it was hot. No, better to wait for Magnus to come along, then hatch a scheme from there. 

He spent the rest of Wednesday mainly on his own, walking the streets and picking up spare change, but never committing to an actual plan beyond “ask Magnus for help.” Murderface held out on the hope that Magnus might return within a timely manner, but as was his luck, it fell through. Magnus did not return Wednesday afternoon, evening, or night, and when Murderface woke up the following morning and checked the living room, found Skwisgaar sleeping comfortably on the couch instead.

There was a fire just three blocks away on Thursday, causing a blast of smoke to sway in the direction of Mordhaus. The windows were slid shut, the air-conditioner covered with a bedsheet, but even that did little to keep the air inside from getting too dry and irritating. Mosquito bites were bad enough; Murderface couldn’t contain himself when he tried watching television through the arid atmosphere, and with the impending due date slowly creeping in, ultimately gave in and exited the apartment to find more spare change. He was hit with dry smoke the second he opened the door, and for the rest of the day, endured red eyes and leaky nostrils while amassing a paltry treasury.

Magnus arrived Friday morning, less a man and more a phantom that said little once he finally appeared. Skwisgaar made no remark when the man stepped through the door, but left the couch and offered up the blanket that rested on its cushions, then glanced in Murderfaces’ general direction, warning him not to approach if he knew what was best. The older man was clearly in one of his moods, and would be for at least a day or two before he was out of it, possibly longer if drugs were involved. Murderface knew the dangers, but still approached.

“Hey, man, how’s it goin?” he said in a hushed voice once he knew everyone was either in their rooms, or out of the apartment. 

Magnus ducked his head under the blanket. Any man with half a brain would’ve taken the hint, but Murderface took it as a challenge that he might simply overcome with the right words.

Murderface got on one knee. “You’ve been gone a while, buddy,” he said, giving the blanket a little prod. “Hey, I was wonderin–’” 

Magnus lifted the blanket just enough for Murderface to catch the intense glare aimed directly at him. “Leave me alone, _William_.” 

And Murderface did just that, and as he turned off the lights in the living room and gave Magnus the space he needed to blow off, started to worry about his financial prospects. Two days of picking pennies off the street had amounted to little, and Murderface knew he only had enough in his bank to pay, at best, half his dues.

The rest of Friday was spent trying to think of a plan. He had some money, and needed to more than double it if he wanted to pay rent and still have enough to enjoy the occasional burger and fries. The first thing that came to mind was gambling, but Murderface knew his poker face wasn’t nearly as unreadable as it was when he played against members of the band. Even if he could convince everyone in the apartment to play against him, he doubted he’d come out on top. Betting on races was another possibility, but Murderface knew the odds were more than against him, and he was sure he had to bet a minimum amount…and his maximum wasn’t quite there.

He had to think up something, though. He had cut Nathan’s fuse short when he bothered Skwisgaar, and Skwisgaar apparently remembered each time he’d ask for a loan, and if he came up with nothing on Sunday, the man would likely bring it up one more time just to see Nathan blow. And if that wasn’t bad, there was Magnus caught up in his mood. Three pissed off bandmates was the last thing Murderface needed on his back right now. 

Then came the dreaded Saturday, and after waking up earlier than usual to scrounge up some measly change, Murderface took shelter behind the apartment, added up his funds to about six additional dollars, and grimaced. Murderface groaned, covered his head with his arms as he contemplated the list of excuses he’d need to use, promises of chores he’d complete, jobs he’d have to apply for, just to make it up to the rest of the band. That, or risk getting kicked out. 

While he mulled over his situation, something loud and clanking approached. A lanky shadow cast over him. “’Ey, Murderface.” It was Pickles. “Whatcha doin’?” 

Still staring down at his pile of change, Murderface sighed. “Not now, Pickles, I’m busy.”

“Oh, okay then.” 

Murderface continued lamenting his sorry state, until it dawned on him that Pickles had finally returned, no doubt from completing some unknown adventure that left him wealthier than he began.

“Wait, Pickles,” Murderface said, jumping up and waving an eager arm. Pickles stopped. In both his hands, he carried trash bags full of what looked like bottles and cans. Murderface took it as a sign the man had just what he needed. “Uhh, hey, dude. Uhm, how’s it goin’? You doin’ alright, man?” Murderface tried for his smile, but the deepening anxiety had finally caught up with him, and with less than a day left, didn’t see much point in kissing ass. “Look, let me cut to the chase...”

Pickles’ slowly bobbed his head. “You need money?”

Humiliated, Murderface blushed. “What? No, I…” He saw Pickles’ eyes narrow, reading through the lie faster than anyone else. Murderface’s shoulder sank, and he shook his head, upset that he tried to fib about it. “Fuck, I need money, Pickles. I spent it all on booze, food, and strip teases.” 

“Rookie mistake, my dood.”

“Yeah, I know,” Murderface practically whined out. He approached the shorter man, hands already clasping the other in a plea of desperation. “Pickles, you got any money you can loan me? I swear, I’ll pay you back.”

He stared deep into Pickle’s green eyes, spotting the slightest inkling of pity, mixed with something genuine concern for his wellbeing. Murderface inched closer, letting his clasped hands nudge Pickles in the shoulder.

“You ask everyone else?” Pickles asked, eyes sharply turning from the ground, up to Murderface’s pitiful self.

“Y-yeah,” Murderface admitted, feeling the blush on his face return as he recounted Skwisgaar and Magnus’ less than heartfelt reaction to his request.

Finally, Pickles dropped the trash bag. He crossed his arms. “I ain’t got extra money. But I can do ya’ one better. Jus’ give me a sec’, won’t cha?” 

It wasn’t quite the answer he was looking for, but Murderface was desperate to see anything happen. “S-sure man!” he proclaimed, stuttering over his already slurred words, and picking up some of the stuffed trash bags Pickles’ had on his person if it meant speeding up the process. “Whatever you say.”

* * *

Pickles showered to get rid of three days worth of wild adventures, binging booze and E, and all the dirt and sweat that coated his sunburnt arms and pits. Murderface sat impatiently on the floor, caught between Nathan’s occasional scrutinizing stare, Magnus’ snores, and Skwisgaar’s silent strumming. Murderface was only too eager to leave once Pickles burst through the bathroom, freshly cleaned. A new man. Before leaving, Pickles pointed at the trash bags, let the guys know to recycle it while he was away, and then called Murderface forward. 

“You ready, dood?” he asked, picking at one of his brow piercings. 

Excited, Murderface practically raced to the door. “You know it.” 

Much to his surprise, Pickles’ avoided picking up the keys, the spare change jar, and instead had him grab some grocery bags, and then pointed Murderface down a familiar path by foot. After a few minutes, it became apparent that Pickles was leading him to the laundromat where he and the others often washed their clothes. 

They sat along a row of worn out chairs from the mid-eighties. Pickles slumped into his seat, his eyes on the television screen hanging above. Murderface, on the other hand, had his arms crossed, paranoia on the increase as he impatiently waited for the little Mexican lady that ran the laundromat to finish mopping and head back inside, past the “Employees Only” swinging door. They waited for a few minutes, careful not to draw too much attention. Pickles bought a soda from the vending machine once she noticed, but she eventually withdrew to the back of the building, dragging the mop and wash bucket with her.

Pickles withheld from standing up. He brought an arm up, stopping Murderface from attempting the same. “One sec,” he said, and stared inquisitively at the door, bottom lip pursed as he surveyed the area, the near empty building, and finally gave the go-ahead. 

“Alright, ya’ see them locks, right?” Pickles asked as he yanked a small bag from his tight jeans. 

“What about them?” Murderface asked, eyeing the vending machine. 

“So, thing is, these locks get worn down real fast,” Pickles said, pulling out two bobby pins from the bag. “Y’gotta constantly open them to remove all the quarters. Them dryers, for example. Gotta get changed at least four times a day. And who knows how old these things are–”

Murderface shook his head. “What does this half-ta do with anything?”

“Watch, and learn for once,” Pickles answered, then shoved the bag into Murderfaces’ hands. “You see the ol’ Mexican lady come out, give me a word. Otherwise, keep yer’ mouth shut.” 

Pickles unraveled one bobby pin with his hands, while keeping the other tucked between his lips. Murderface followed, keeping his eyes on the swinging door located near the back, and growing worried as the distance between them and it began to shrink. Murderface’s jaw dropped once he saw Pickles take to the dryer just several feet from the back door, jamming the bent bobby pin into the lock, then pulling the other from his mouth and shoving it in the bottom-half of the already crammed lock.

“Alright, so what you gotta remember is that patience is the key,” Pickles said, eyes contracting with each delicate move that he performed. “That means keepin’ calm, not trying to speed things up–”

“Ok, but what if we get caught?” Murderface asked.

“That’s rule two: don’t act like yer up to no good,” Pickles replied most diligently. “Basically, the opposite of how you act ‘round Mags. See, you act like you belong, people won’t notice you. Act confident, and even if they do, they won’t say nothin’.”

“For real?” Murderface asked, then saw Pickles’ eyes suddenly light up as the lock turned, unlatching and pulling the coin box forward. 

“Take a look at this,” Pickles said, grinning at the small collection of quarters that filled the box. Murderface’s mouth opened as he quickly counted the number of quarters waiting for him. With a greedy hand, he reached inward, ready to snatch his reward, but Pickle’s stopped him, slapping his hand away.

“Dude, what–”

Pickles grabbed Murderface, pulling him close so that their faces were almost touching. “Final rule is that you don’t take everything,” he said in a hushed voice. “These machines take a dollar fer dryin’. Lady expects at least four quarters to be in each machine. If she finds nothin’, or some weird number, what do you think she’s gonna do?”

It took awhile for Murderface to absorb the question. He heard every word, but the close proximity between himself and Pickles proved incredibly distracting, especially once he noticed how Pickles’ eyes seemed to glow when cast under shadows. At that moment, with the two of them performing some dastardly scheme, and Pickles eyeing him like some short, but rocking crime boss, all Murderface could think of was how jumpy it made him. Damn, Pickles was so cool! Why the hell didn’t they hang out more often? Through his excitement, a small yearning burst forth. It almost felt like he had something important he wanted to say, but when Murderface attempted to divulge further, only found bland flattering lines that reignited old shame, making him shake his head in mild displeasure once the words started to rise.

“You need me to repeat myself?” Pickled asked, perplexed.

“Huh? _Oh_ ,” was Murderface’s reply. “I getcha…so I have to count how much I steal?”

“Jus' steal what you need, dood,” Pickles replied, admittedly exasperated by the ignorance coming from the younger man. “Now, hand me a bag. We got a lot of work to do.”

After taking two handfuls from the box, Pickles locked everything back into place, pulling Murderface back with his collar and making sure the fool paid close attention. He tacked on a fourth and “totally final” rule, telling Murderface to leave a clean crime scene, “or so help me god, if we gotta take several stops just to get our laundry done.” He did the next one, and this time Murderface paid close attention, admiring the craftsmanship as Pickles’ delicately unlatched the second lock within a few minutes. He made Murderface do one. That was a challenge. Pickles’ lock-picking was a work of art compared to Murderface snapping both bobby pins, swearing under his breath while Pickles looked over his shoulder, calmly reminding him to take his time. It took forever to do it, but eventually Murderface felt that wonderfully click taking place just inches from his face. He almost wanted to scream out, chest bump Pickles and maybe toss in an extra high-five for good measure. The second he pulled that box out, he had Pickles back in his personal space, sweaty arm brushing his cheek and fingers playfully wriggling before going for the kill.

They spent only ten minutes more in the laundromat before the employee made her grand entrance, forcing the two out of the door before she picked up on the grocery bags filled with spare change. After that, Pickles suggested the arcade by the strip mall, and they continued their journey on foot, swinging their grocery bags full of quarters like nunchucks, and with the promise of rent being paid off by Sunday, Murderface made a point to perform some exaggerated Bruce Lee poses, earning a wheezy chuckle from Pickles.

They made a slightly bigger bank at the second laundromat, the one located in a nicer neighborhood with an actual grocery store that sold fruits and vegetables that weren’t all canned. Murderface managed three whole dryers before getting caught, and Pickles had to basically turn himself into a distraction, tripping the underaged worker before making their grand escape. One arcade, two laundromats, and three Shasta Coke vending machines later, Pickles and Muderface began the treacherous journey of turning their coins into cash. By now their layered grocery bags were starting to wear thin, and even with Murderface’s grim contours scaring away most pedestrians, the two were now garnering more than their fair share of attention as they made their way to the nearest Coinstar.

“Hey, Pickles,” Murderface said once he saw a grocery store coming into view.

Pickles nodded. “What’s up?”

Murderface blinked, feeling the sting of a hard day’s worth of sweat starting to wear on him. “Thanks for helping me out,” he said, lowering his face a little in the off chance that his thanks might invoke a nasty joke from Pickles. 

Instead, Pickles chuckled. “The guys keep making the mistake of handin’ you fish,” he said, bending his neck and cracking it in several spots. He rolled his shoulder as he carried on, balancing the weight of his bag between his hands. “They keep handin’ it ya’, yer never gonna learn, and they’re gonna bitch about it. So I’m teaching you how to support yourself. I mean, it ain’t honest work, but it’s only temporary, y’know?”

This time it made all the sense in the world to Murderface. 

“Gotcha,” he said, trying for a friendly grin, but almost letting drop the second he did it once the gap between teeth felt the arid heat of the day hitting him, and he became painfully aware of his appearance in the face of Pickles.

They continued towards the grocery store, with Pickles praying there would be a Coinstar inside, and that their journey would come to an end just before dinnertime. Each complaint about tired feet, stinging eyes, or burnt skin left Murderface feeling less and less adequate, though he wouldn’t pinpoint the reason why. He watched Pickles drag his feet as they got closer and closer, and he felt his own legs grow stiffer once he realized their adventure would be over once he turned his coins into a receipt, receipt into cash or check.

“Uhm, Pickles?” 

Pickles turned. “Yeah?”

“I know we just spent like half a day getting these quarters, but…” He saw Pickle’s raise one of his pierced brows. Murderface sucked his inner cheek, staring hard and keeping himself from looking too soft, or stupid and thought his next words carefully so he wouldn’t sound girly, sissy or _weird_. “You, uhh, wanna grab a bite to eat? My treat?” 

Pickles stopped, and Murderface inhaled sharply, expecting the worst, but when he halted, saw Pickles snickering at him, showing off his bright wet incisor as he shook his head in disbelief. “Shit, man, you never learn, do ya?” Pickles said, then shifting the weight of the bag to just one arm, brought his hand to his head and roughly tapped at it with a finger. “Dumbass.” 

Murderface pouted at the insult, and was about to take extreme offense; then Pickles laughed again, heartier, livelier, smiling at Murderface and wiping something from the corner of his eye. 

Pickles dragged his hand over his thinning scalp.“Fine, but I’m picking,” he said, then broke into another short, but pleasant set of chuckles that, after days of shitty weather, insect bites and terrible news, was a fine enough way for Murderface to end the week.


	7. Klokateers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A klokateer goes on his first ever big-boy mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 16: Klokateers 
> 
> Contains background Nathan/Abigail and Charles/Pickles.

Employee #749816 was branded just six days ago when the alarm in his department rang, and his superior officer charged up to his desk and ordered him and several other klokateers to immediately head to the assembly hall for mission debriefing. He hurried off without a word, eager to attend and partake in his first major operation since being handed the black hood.

The halls were crowded today. Many klokateers were busy constructing decorations, hanging lights, moving boxes or crates of other material along. Word through the grapevine was that Master Skwigelf was hosting a little get-together. It was going to be quite the shindig, but the details regarding all the juicy bits of the event were muddled. It was higher ranked business, something only the most trained klokateers would partake in.

749816 slowed right as three klokateers carted the bottom half of an ice sculpture. 749816 took one look and guessed the statue was of Master Skwigelf.

“Hey,” one of his associates called. “Shake a leg, man!”

749816 navigated around the cart. “On it!” he replied, and rushed to catch up.

They arrived not much later to their destination. The assembly hall was a large, standing-room only chamber. All klokateers, no matter their rank, would spend a portion of their time in this room, either to receive news or updates, or be debriefed on upcoming jobs. 749816 was admittedly impressed with the number of klokateers already in formation, standing at attention near the stage, waiting for the presentation to begin. Excitement bubbled as he looked around, did a quick count, and lost it after nearing twenty. He noticed his pace slowed again, and promptly fastened his stride to catch up with the group, along with an additional klokateers also headed near the stage. More settled into columns and rows, and he tried another recount, this time making it passed twenty-five before the lights in the room began to dim.

The first thing he noticed was that it was a klokateer, not a member of the elite deth staff, that appeared on stage. Instead, it was a klokateer in a dress suit, carrying two files and a clicker under her arm. Still very much excited, 749816 glued his feet to the floor, and forced both arms to remain close to his sides as a single light shone on her.

“Gentlemen,” she greeted, earning a uniformed nod from the crowd. She pulled her clicker out from under her arm, and hit a button. A massive projector dropped behind her. With another click, it flickered on, revealing an image of Skwisgaar. “As some of you know, Lord Skwigelf is having a private party tonight.” Another click showed various photos of women, all of various backgrounds and ages. “It is expected that nearly 400 women will attend, each with their unique set of demands and kinks. For this reason, most of our best trained men and women have been stretched across the castle for the event.” 

Stretched? That meant they needed additional support, correct? 749816’s eyes lit up at the prospects of being assigned such a prestigious and exciting mission. It didn’t matter what the role was, 749816 was ready to fulfill his new task. To think, he would have the bragging rights of saying his first mission involved one of Lord Skwigelf’s private parties. But as he fantasized some of the many one-liners he fantasized on saying, the projector flashed new images on screen. Not more women, or the godly guitar player, but of Lord Explosion and Master Pickles. 

“In light of this event,” their presenter added, voice erring on the side of caution, “Lord Explosion and Master Pickles have decided to take matters into their own hands.” The projector displayed two additional photos. 149816 immediately recognized the first photo as Madam Remeltindtdrinc, and the second as Dethklok’s former manager, Charles Offdensen. “The two have set up last-minute, impromptu dates to get away from tonight’s festivities. But mostly to show up Lord Skwigelf. Which brings us to this meeting…”

His mission was a date then? Admittedly, it wasn’t what 749816 was expecting for his first mission, but it was far from a disappointment. Since joining, he wanted nothing more than to get up and close with one of the members of Dethklok. Since his training, he’d been deprived of that wondrous opportunity, and his newly appointed rank kept him trapped in the cellars, completing paperwork in stuffy, bloodstained offices with no windows. A date, while not as exciting as a concert, assassination or plot to kidnap and torture an enemy, was still an amazing opportunity to get up and close and personal with the Dethklok (so long as he maintained a healthy three-foot distance when asked, didn’t look in their direction for too long, breath their air, or speak).

“There are thirty of you.” She continued across the stage, as though to silently give a count and reaffirm her concerns. “That’s fifteen members split between two teams. A little short, but nothing you cannot handle.”

“Yes, ma’am!” the group declared in unison.

She faced the left half of the crowd. “You fifteen will trail Lord Explosion and Madam Remeltindtdrinc tonight. Their date is in exactly three hours, which is more than plenty of time to prepare.” She pulled one of the two files from under her arm and pointed at a klokateer from the front row. “This file will contain the location of the country, city and restaurant they’ll be attending. You know Lord Explosion. Romantic evening, people.”

Several klokateers provided her reaffirming nods.

“I won't bother with the Madam,” their presenter continued. “She can handle herself in any given situation. But remember, ambience is key. That means silencers and disguises, do we understand?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Both sides were alive with the promise of a successful night for their masters. Some clapped and cheered for Lord Explosion, while a few voices seemed more focused on Madam Remeltindtdrinc’s evening.

There was a second klokateer now on stage, and 749816 barely recognized him as the lucky one called on from before. She handed him the file, and he in turn, called his team to attention, then ordered them to a neighboring room.

749816 watched as his presenter gracefully approached his half of the room.

“You fifteen will have a lot to look forward to,” she began. 749816 straightened himself up, standing higher than before in anticipation for the debriefing. “Master Pickles requires a lot of time to prepare. Usually days. You will only have about–” She raised her wrist up her hood before giving a slight shake of the head. “Two hours. I’m going to need my most experienced klokateer to lead this mission.”

Several klokateers turned to one another, muttering their ranks to one another, and gauging who was the most experienced to take on this honor. Still very much the “new guy,” 749816 kept his head low, letting the more seasoned servants to figure it out amongst themselves. Though he might’ve looked meek at that moment, deep down he was feeling absolutely delighted. Date or not, there was no doubt by the hustle and chatter of klokateers that this mission would be incredibly demanding. And why wouldn’t it? Master Pickles was quite possibly the craziest man alive! 

“Hurry,” she ordered. “We’re understaffed and low on time here! I cannot risk failure tonight, people. Consider this a life or death situation.” 

“That, uhh, won’t be necessary,” a voice broke through the chatter. A few klokateers turned and pointed at a man coming onto the stage, fixing his tie into place before giving a slight bow of the head to the presenter. 

“Mr. Offdensen,” she said. “You’re early.”

“To Skwisgaar’s party. Which I am, for whatever reason, a guest.” Charles pulled his coat forward, fixing it perfectly across his chest, then worked the buttons from the bottom up. “But yes,” he prattled on, his attention more on his outfit than the klokateers now all locked on him, “as you know by now, I’ll also be meeting with Pickles later. Once I’ve introduced myself and have fixed up all miscounted preparations, helped with redecorating, complete any last-minute order Skwisgaar’s overlooked, and effectively put things into order, I intend on surprising Pickles and taking him out as soon as the party begins.”

749816 was hired after the man retired from Dethklok, but everyone donning the hood knew of the man who once overlooked all of Dethklok’s major financial decisions. Legends spoke of him fixing up the most disastrous situations…and now he was here, gracing everyone with his presence.

“We will have quite a lot of work on our hands, men,” Charles said once he was proper enough, facing the remaining klokateers standing in the room. “While I’m helping Skwisgaar with his party, I’ll need a few of you to prepare a limo and fill it with the necessary distractions.” He stopped, envisioning something that no one else in the room couldn’t, then tacked on, “no alcohol. I want it moved to an empty limo.”

749816 gave a nod for each demand, heart racing as Lord Offdensen tacked on a list of banned music, the approved list and range of weapons he wanted them wearing, the recommended vests and armor to bring along, and requested someone to produce simple conversation starters for when Pickles eventually got too drunk, an extra suit, some aspirin and a blanket. Charles warned the group that it was highly likely at least half the staff would be injured on field, mostly due to rabid fans and paparazzi. There was also a twenty-three percent chance Pickles would injure or accidentally maim a klokateer. Finally, there was also a slight chance of death, but if everyone remained vigilant, could ensure a lovely night between friends.

“Which is what matters most here,” Charles declared, then turned off the projector displaying the percentage of klokateers likely to survive the evening. He brought a hand to his chi and gave it a mild rub. “Now, I’m going to need two of you to–”

“Sir, a word!” A klokateer stepped into the assembly hall and frantically raced to the stage.

“What is it?” 

Heaving, the klokateer answered, “Lord Wartooth is requesting a legion of klokateers to accompany him to the states!” 

Charles frowned. “Toki? What does he need them for?”

“He says he wants to pal around with a friend,” the klokateer replied.

“Oh, _Rockso_ ,” Charles said, disinterested. He glanced at the presenter, who merely shrugged at him, informing the ex-manager that they were stretched too thin to offer an additional dozen klokateers. Then Charles muttered something about babysitting, and brought his hand to the corner of his eyes, rubbing them as he contemplated the demand.

“It is just Rockso, sire,” she said.

“Indeed,” Charles said, barely containing his repugnance.

It didn’t take the brightest gear to figure they weren’t overly concerned with the logistics behind this event. Charles sighed, glancing at the remaining row klokateers. “Right, I suppose we can spare a few…let’s see.” He pointed at three near the back, 749816 included. “You three. Go look after Toki.”

“Oof,” someone grumbled.

“Tough luck,” someone standing in front of 749816 muttered. He didn’t get it. Sure, the mission involved Rockso, but surely there was honor in watching over and ensuring the safety of a member of Dethklok? But with more klokateers looking in his direction, a sense of doubt began to eat at him.

“Right, uhm. Bring some spare change for gas,” Charles said, causing a few klokateers to snicker at the three. It then dawned on him that this wasn’t going to be a regular mission, at least not one that held to the same degree as the other two. “Keep your distance. Best to let nature take its course. Once they pass out, retrieve Toki and return to Mordhaus. Don’t acknowledge Rockso if you don’t have to.”

“Anything else,” a klokateer standing by 749816 asked. 749816 glanced at her then returned to Charles, hopeful there was more to this mission than simply keeping an eye on Lord Wartooth till he blacked out.

“No, no, that’s it,” Charles answered, and whatever hope 749816 had for this being an exciting night vanished. “Go ready a limo and, whatever you do, don’t buy Rockso cocaine.” He dropped his stare back to the remaining twelve klokateers, and just like that, 749816 had his first mission.

* * *

When 749816 dared to ask, the other klokateers were more than willing to explain the lack of care regarding Rockso missions. First, that it was classified as a “low resource” mission, and although Toki-related jobs tended to be dangerous and unpredictable, many of the staff and klokateers were all counting on those surprise dangers to come up and bring an end to the clown. It was for this reason that there were no weapons handed to him, and instead, had another klokateer tell 749816 to bring something to read while he waited in the limo.

According to 6590, Rockso jobs involved mainly reconnaissance, with hardly any involvement beyond the occasional removal of any troubling blockades. She further explained that it was in their best interest to say and do as little as possible, otherwise Rockso might tempt the worst out of a drunk, erratic Lord Wartooth.

“And, to be honest,” she said to 749816 as they waited for the limo to roll up to the back of Mordhaus, “I can’t fucking stand the guy. Really, just stay quiet and let them drink.”

“Alright,” 749816 replied, somewhat dismayed by tonight’s prospects.

A mission was a mission, and while he tried to convince himself that it was as equally important as the other two, he was discouraged by the lack of armor and weapons, no fancy file, or even a “good luck” from the higher-ups. But this would be his first opportunity to meet a member of Dethklok. It had been a dream of his since he was young, and now, after years of waiting, and weeks of painfully demanding training, it was finally happening.

Not much later, a freshly washed limo pulled into the back of the fortress, ready for a night of debauchery and mayhem. Five small, but dangerous looking helicopters were in the sky, circling the farthest limo before carefully descending, landing perfectly spaced around it. Several klokateers raced over to the vehicle and aircrafts, filling each one up. After several minutes, the aircrafts returned to the sky, and they, along with the limo, headed to the front of Mordhaus.

By now the sun was setting, and 749816 could hear the commotion taking place in the fortress as it started to fill with women. He ignored it, endeavoring through the temptations, and waited for his limo to roll up.

A second departed, taking along with it just two aircrafts, both slimmer and far subtler in design (though containing just the right amount of glowing red and pointed tips), hovering above. More klokateers, some carrying weapons, others in gear, or possessing backpacks with supplies, hurried to their stations. The feeling of inadequacy mounted as the vehicles rode off to pick up Dethklok and company, leaving behind the two last klokateers.

92244 arrived last, coming to a slow right as the two stepped forward. He lowered the window right as 6590 reached for the passenger door.

“They filled this one with all the extra booze,” he warned, earning a groan from her.

“Great,” she muttered.

“That a problem?” 749816 asked.

“If Lord Wartooth drinks everything, then no,” she explained, opening the second door and glancing inward. She groaned again, and 749816 went ahead and peaked inside to see the mini bar crammed with bottles. “But if any of this breaks or spills before he sets foot inside, then it’s out of our paycheck.”

“Oh.”

“I was going to ask you to man the Gatling gun in the back, but I think it’s better you stay inside the limo. Near the bar,” 6590 said. “It’s a bumpy ride through the woods.”

“Oh.”

“Hey, who knows?” she said, trying to sound cheery. She gave the man a nudge. “He might share a drink with you. You never know? Lord Wartooth has his moments.”

It sounded preposterous, but 749816 found the idea of it pleasing enough that he smiled. 6590 couldn’t see it, but must have felt it because she gave the newbie a light pat on the back before telling him to head inside and be prepared to greet Lord Wartooth once they arrived at the front of Mordhaus.

Traffic was bad. Dirt roads that were usually unoccupied were now filled with klokateers assigned with chauffeuring vehicles. Normally, it was protocol to just drive on and damage whatever got in their way, either by shooting it or crushing it with the massive weight and stature of the limo. Unfortunately for them, the cars belonged to Lord’s Skwisgaar’s guests, which meant defensive driving rules applied. It also meant 749816 spent a lot of time eyeing the many bottles and crystal glasses that filled the limo, often reaching and stopping something from toppling over each time the driver hit the brake, rolled over a large mound of dirt, rock, or decaying corpse.

It was a while before they reached the front of the fortress, and once they parked, 749816 was eager for Lord Wartooth to arrive. The second the booze was no longer his responsibility, the better, and if the rumors he’d been told earlier were true, then there was going to be a lot of drinking to be had once their master was on board.

So they waited. 749816 exited the limo, stood by the door and told himself to remain calm, and appear as professional as possible once the talented musician made his appearance.

Ten minutes came and went. Then another. Finally, after over half an hour of waiting, three klokateers in charge of traffic asked that the three move the limo aside until Lord Wartooth arrived.

“You’re holding up traffic,” one complained. “And according to our guest roster, we’re expecting another 200-plus guests.”

They handed 92244 a walkie-talkie as a promise they’d update the group once they got word of their master’s location. With nothing else to do, the three returned to the limo, and began driving back onto the road, around Mordhaus. This time there were more cars on the road, some being driven by senior citizens, and 749816 had to practically embrace the mini bar to keep things from falling over.

Twenty more minutes passed. 6590 requested an update, and was told off. Then another fifteen. The walkie-talkie clicked with word that Lord Wartooth was headed near the entrance. Thanks to a lack of designated parking, there were now cars parked haphazardly on the edge of the road, and klokateers waving flashlights to not get hit as they ran back to the entrance. They were about halfway to the entrance when the walkie-talkie clicked alive and warned them Lord Wartooth exited Mordhaus. 

“We’re going to be late,” 92244 murmured to 6590. “We need to speed things up.”

She opened the limo’s partition. “Hey, we need to increase our speed.”

“Oh, sure,” 749816 exclaimed through clenched teeth.

“Sorry.”

The partition closed, and 749816 brought his knees on top of the cushion, using his entire upper half to protect the fancy glasses and top-shelf drinks from tipping over as the limo made a sharp turn. He netted most of the glasses easily, but the heavy glass bottles full of brandy, vodka and the like proved more difficult. They slid from side to side, and although he did his best, missed a small amber bottle that was just out of reach. 749816 saw it topple, and he lunged, grabbing it by the neck and saving him god knows how many hundreds of dollars in savings, but when he lifted himself up, he heard something crack underneath his footing. When he looked down, there were at least two wine glasses scattered on the floor, and an additional shot glass rolling towards the center.

They arrived ten minutes after the fact, with 749816 scrambling to pick up as many fragments as he could to make the interior presentable. Because of his folly, 6590 would greet Lord Wartooth, and stall for as long as she could before allowing him inside the vehicle.

“Are you done yet?” 92244 asked through the partition.

“Almost,” 749816 answered, stowing the fragments into his palm before handing it to the older klokateer. “God, this sucks.” 

“Hey, it’s all smooth sailing once he’s inside,” 92244 suggested, then dumped the broken crystal in the small bin located on his side.

749816 was ashamed to admit that he almost desired an uneventful night. After working up a sweat managing glasses, getting nauseous from the same eight pot holes, waiting in the dark, picking up a hundred dollars’ worth of crystal, 749816 almost considered himself lucky that his first mission was something simple, and required no additional stress aside from these few hiccups. Maybe it was for the best. At the end of the day, all that really mattered was that he was being put to use, and would soon bask in the glory of Lord Wartooth. 

He bent down, surveying the floor and finding it adequate. He stumbled into a cushioned seat and fell unto it, then turned and stared out the window, squinting through the tinted windows and wondering where Lord Wartooth and 6590 were.

“Where are they?” he said aloud, hoping 92244 might be able to answer for him.

Outside were dozens of women being greeted and escorted through the first line of security. 749816 looked passed the rows of dresses and hooded visages, trying to locate the one man whose mighty presence would undo all the anxiety that had built up since being assigned this mission. 

Then, the door besides him opened. 749816 jolted, turned and half-expected Lord Wartooth to pop inside. Instead, 6590 peered inside. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked her.

“Uhm, well.” She played with her hands. “Apparently, Dr. Rockso cancelled last minute.”

The partition swung open. “Are you serious?” 92244 inquired, eyes wide enough that both could make out the white under the hood.

“Yes, he just left to return to his room,” she answered back.

749816 said nothing. He merely sank into his head, dipping his head back and resting it on top of the cushion.

“So, yeah. Lord Wartooth is canceling tonight’s playdate. She glanced at 749816. “Sorry, man,” she said, then dipped out of the limo.

749816 remained silent, listening as the passenger door opened. 6590 buckled up for the long car ride back, while 749816 turned and glanced through the red tinted windows. He hadn’t even thought of the fact that he missed out on seeing Lord Wartooth until just now, and it was too late to try and exit the limo. He glanced at the mini bar located at the end of the limo, the final boss of the night he never knew he’d have to face. The greatest challenge of the night. The destroyer of a paycheck.

The engine revved up, and the vibrations underneath his feet alerted 749816 he’d have to hurry if he didn’t want any more glasses to spill. He heard glass shaking, clanking and hitting each other and sending a noisy threat of what was to come. That same bottle of amber liquid was already inching its way to the edge of the table.

“Hey, man, are you ready?” he heard 92244 say through the partition. 

The engine roared again, and despite the tinted window, 749816 could make out some klokateers waving at them to hurry and leave the area. He returned to the mini bar, and could see the same bottle teeter close to the edge, taunting him with a night of misery and jokes from his associates.

Without leaving his seat, he replied, “Yeah. Let’s go.”


	8. Partying (SkwisMag)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After receiving some good news in the mail, the band takes Skwisgaar out to celebrate. While there, and much to Skwisgaar's delight, Magnus attempts start something deeper between them. Unfortunately, both are met with the night's greatest opposition: Magnus himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kloktober day 20: Partying 
> 
> Ship: Skwisgaar/Magnus 
> 
> Warnings: drinking; sexist remarks; 90's racist joke; just poor behavior overall from everyone.

Three months after joining Dethklok, Skwisgaar received a much-awaited letter from the city’s courthouse. The entire apartment went silent once Nathan mentioned the return address was none other than Immigrations Services, and everyone waited with bated breath as Skwisgaar tore the letter open, revealing a successful interview and future date to earn his official green card.

Nathan and Murderface argued over what burger joint provided an affordable, but satisfying hit, while Magnus pulled Skwisgaar aside and asked what he desired most of all: food, drinks, drugs or women? With enough money pooled together, they could afford him a nice night with one of those things. Whichever one he picked, he’d settle on a place and make it happen. Skwisgaar didn’t need to mull over the question too long. The smiles and cheers awarded by his friendly pack of roommates already convinced him that he wanted _everyone_ to join in on the fun, and figured there were enough calories in beer to keep them going through the night. He told Murderface and Nathan to locate a joint not too far from the apartment, where they could party all night and hopefully wake up together, all in one piece.

They left for the Depths of Humanity the following evening, after making a few trips to the bank, and scrounging enough change to earn them a ride over and back. Magnus insisted they take the bus, flirting with the idea of them spending the rest of the night drinking, and later suggesting he withdrew a bit more than a pitcher’s worth of funds. Nathan grunted a response, then made a comment about getting a plate of nachos, the only good thing on the menu. 

The ride over was crowded, but peaceful. Murderface spent most of it listening to his Walkman, which meant there weren’t any threats or complaints from neighboring strangers. Nathan asked questions about the process from here on end, to which Skwisgaar was only too eager to share, but of course, his attention was split between sharing this exciting news and Magnus constantly vying for his attention, taking advantage of Nathan’s pauses to ask questions of his own.

It was customary for the new guy to buy the first round of drinks, at least that was what Murderface claimed when he and Skwisgaar approached the bar of the dingy nightclub he’d later associate with knife fights and flighty women.

“But since this is your night, we’ll have to improvise,” Magnus said, emerging from the corner of Skwisgaar’s right, but making his formal appearance just before then, when he crossed his fingers through several blond locks. “William?”

Grinning, Murderface leaned his back against the raised counter, looking casual before resting his stare on a neighboring man. Skwisgaar listened to Magnus chuckling besides him as Murderface wrinkled his pudgy nose; then, with a wide grin, purposely shoved himself into that man, nearly knocking him over. The man stumbled forward, spilling his drink on the floor, and a bit on someone else in the process. A verbal scuffle ensued, and Magnus’ firm hold on Skwisgaar’s shoulder as they watched the man turn and threaten Murderface kept him anchored where he was. They stood, pretending to be nothing more than silent observers, when the man finally left his stool to dwarf over a stuttering Murderface.

Magnus spoke up. “William, whatever is going on here?” 

He stepped forward, but not before giving Skwisgaar three friendly pats on the back, reminding him that this performance required the participation of all bandmates. Nervously, Skwisgaar stiffly added, “Habs you been… drinkinks… too much agains?” 

It was a magical act that, despite its repetitious design, always seemed to work. Magnus approached the victim with feigned innocence and a forked tongue, cooling them off while also reprimanding Murderface for being so careless. And Murderface, the assigned drunk for the night, continued to pester and probe until successfully dragging Magnus and his target into a fight. The three went at one another, Magnus and Murderface always playing so well off each other that Skwisgaar still winced when he saw Murderface toss a jab at his face. Magnus hammed it up, covering his right eye as though he’d been hit, and then throwing a rather convincing punch Murderface’s way once he was close enough. Skwisgaar grew increasingly anxious when Murderface landed on his prey, getting his hands all over the man’s jacket and pockets.

Finally, just when the target had enough, the final actor came into play.

“Murderface,” Nathan boomed, enacting a wave of silence from the gathering crowd. Nathan tore through the crowds, his mere presence alone creating a rift by some as he approached Magnus and Murderface lying on the floor. “Look at you. Idiot,” he said in a low growl. “Get up and apologize before I kick your ass myself.”

“Yeesh, yeesh,” Murderface said through a heavy lisp. “Alright, no need to get physical.”

“Skwisgaar, help Magnus,” Nathan ordered, then turned on the crowd with a nasty glare. “What’re you all looking at?”

The crowds dispersed, and music blasting above consumed the rush of heat and adrenaline that otherwise threatened a great night. Skwisgaar found Magnus leaning against the counter, now covering the left eye. Thankfully, no one picked up on it. Skwisgaar took Magnus by the hand, taking a step back as Magnus hoisted himself up. The second he was on both feet Magnus dove close and whispered, “good work. _Very_ convincing.” 

“No problems,” Skwisgaar replied, but doubted the compliment’s authenticity.

They left Nathan and Murderface to handle the rest. Nathan forced Murderface to apologize, continued to get any remaining onlookers to scatter, and once it was safe, would return with whatever treasures Murderface had managed to find with his sticky fingers. 

“See anything with enough chairs?” Magnus asked into Skwisgaar’s ear. With all the commotion, the terrible lighting, and all the hard rock blaring through the speakers, it made sense the man was so close, exhaling each word directly into Skwisgaar. So what if they were supposed to keep it “under wraps,” and so what if it was under Magnus’ orders? Much like the bar itself, all rules were tossed aside for the night. It also took little convincing on Skwisgaar’s part that the hand on his shoulder, itching to touch his hair, was a passable act in public. Magnus behind him, but also leading him through the crowds with a simple movement of each finger, seemed perfectly natural as well.

“Them ones over there looks good?” Skwisgaar pointed at a recently abandoned booth with leftovers and empty mugs still scattered on top of it. 

Weight pressed on him. Magnus tilted forward, goatee dragging and Skwisgaar feeling the coarse hair lightly graze his bare skin. “I suppose it’ll do,” Magnus said, then glanced momentarily at Skwisgaar, flashing a grin that he was thankful he couldn’t quite make out in the dark setting.

They made a jump at the booth before another could accost it, and as soon as Skwisgaar settled, Magnus grabbed the baskets and dropped them on the floor, pushing them away with the tip of his boot and leaving them for someone else to deal with.

“Okays, but what if someone steps on its?” Skwisgaar remarked once Magnus settled besides him. There’s plenty of space in the booth,

“Well, that’s their problem.” Magnus replied with a grin that flashed eerily against the tremble of strobe lights coming alive with the introduction of some lame-sounding punk band. Somehow, Skwisgaar managed a mild chuckle, earning Magnus’ favor all the more; the pace of flashing increased, but each still of Magnus remained exceptionally bold and alluring. “We need to do a round of shots later.”

“Whats?”

“I said, we need to do shots!” Magnus yelled.

Murderface and Nathan arrived at the table with a number card. Nathan placed it at the center of the booth while Murderface took a seat opposite of Magnus, scooting close to the center, and settling some inches from Skwisgaar.

“We got nachos,” Nathan stated proudly.

“ _And_ enough money to pay for half of the next round,” Murderface poignantly added, raising several furled bills in his hand.

“You tossed the wallet this time?” Magnus asked Murderface.

“’Course I did!”

“Hey guys,” Nathan said over the band. “Hey. Guys. You think we should’ve…maybe got some lava cake?”

Murderface recoiled in his booth. “Dude, that does not mix well with beer.”

“Why on earth would you want overpriced, half-baked cake?”

“Y’know,” Nathan said, lifting a finger towards Skwisgaar. “For Skwisgaar?”

“What? No!” Murderface shook both hands. “That thing is like six dollars!”

“Last I checked, this isn’t your celebration.” Magnus’ voice pierced through the heavy drum rhythm like an icy needle, hitting Murderface where it counted, and shutting his complaint. 

“He’s right,” Nathan agreed.

Magnus turned a little, giving Skwisgaar a playful nudge with his elbow. Skwisgaar had been mixing in the sounds and conversations, the booming atmosphere and occasional glances at the women standing at the far end of the dance floor, and wasn’t prepared for three sets of eyes to suddenly focus on him. He certainly wasn’t ready to meet Magnus’ eyes which, under the increasing strobe, glowed a vibrant amber and black between the flashes.

“Oh, ehms.” Skwisgaar wasn’t sure where he could look without feeling cornered. Nathan was practically eating him alive with his stare, while Murderface sent him a look of disapproval, suggesting the exotic, American treat was not worth the money.

“Fuck it,” Magnus said abruptly, then dragged himself out from the booth. “I’ll buy the damn thing.”

“Whats?” Skwisgaar asked, jaw turning heavy as Magnus straightened his jacket.

Across from Skwisgaar, Nathan shrugged a “whatever,” while Murderface reclined in his seat, relieved he wouldn’t have to spend any leftover cash on the cake.

“See you in a bit,” Magnus said, saluting at the three. “Don’t fucking eat my share of nachos, alright?” He dropped his arm, made a turn, going down a short flight of stairs, into the thrashing crowds. The lighting made it impossible to spot him once he was in it, which left Skwisgaar oddly troubled.

“Maybes I shoulds go wit him?” he suggested to the others.

“He’ll be fine,” Nathan retorted.

“But he wents to get cakes?” Skwisgaar said. Only when he finished, and the words were out there, lingering under the oppressive beats of the music, and crushed by Nathan and Murderface’s stare, did Skwisgaar understand that he was making something out of absolutely nothing.

“ _And?_ ” Nathan asked not much after Skwisgaar’s awkward realization.

“We didn’t need you holding our hand when we went to get drinks!” Murderface commented, then clapped and rubbed his hands together when he caught something in his sights. “Speaking of which: here comes the grub!”

A waitress walked over, carrying a platter with their food. “Drinks will be out in a minute,” she dryly remarked, then headed off without another word. Skwisgaar stared at the rotund pile of chips, nacho cheese, and array of red cubes that didn’t quite resemble tomatoes or red peppers, canned jalapeños and olives, and a green mash that hopefully was more avocado and cilantro than anything else.

“Typical,” Nathan grumbled, then grabbed a corner of nachos and proceeded to shove the food into his mouth. “Anyways,” he said through chews, “Don’t worry about Magnus. Guy likes you, so let him be nice to you.”

“’Best you milk it while he’s in a good mood,” Murderface added before scarfing down several chips of his own. “Magnus hardly ever buys crap for people. Unless you’re cool, like me, it can take ages for him to even consider you–”

“Murderface, shut up,” Nathan said. “Look, you’re in the band. We like you. So, uhh, don’t think too hard about it, alright?”

Don’t think too hard about it? That seemed to be the motto of the band from the get-go. In most instances, it was a motto that proved disastrous. Tonight was an exception. Skwisgaar would give it that, but only because Murderface claimed to know everything about Magnus. 

Skwisgaar normally refused to make such bold claims, but in this instance, accepted that he and Magnus shared a… unique understanding of one another. This relationship, though only expanding a few weeks in length, told Skwisgaar everything he really needed to know about the man. True, he was cold when Skwisgaar performed in front of him and the others during their first rehearsal, emotionally distant during the first week, but the moment it clicked Skwisgaar was sticking around longer than a few weeks, Magnus was nothing short of chatty, adventurous, _suggestive_. The complete one-eighty was as welcoming as it was unannounced. Skwisgaar never had an issue meeting the occasional glances or hushed compliment, the hand that took rest on his shoulder, back and, as of three weeks ago, played with his hair, lips and spirit. Skwisgaar also didn’t see a reason not to return those calls, pitting Magnus’ attempts with his own, challenging the man’s desire against his, and always delighting when he came on top. And why would he have any issue? It wouldn’t be the first time his looks caught another man’s fancy, nor the first time Skwisgaar acted upon it.

But up until now Magnus had been strict about keeping everything hidden from Nathan and William. He used the word “unprofessional,” but the look in his eyes suggested it was fear and ridicule that drove him to make Skwisgaar swear one night they’d stay quiet. With Magnus so touchy tonight, Skwisgaar wanted to weigh the cake against the past few weeks, and declare progress was taking place. If not the dessert, but also those salacious fingers that dared to comb though his locks in public, or the pervasive stare that dared to test the limits and linger seconds longer than necessary. As he rested, thinking of those terrifying dark eyes, Skwisgaar regretted not leaving the booth when Magnus did. There went an opportunity to make him shiver, for him to shudder and remember _whose_ party this was, and _who_ deserved the happiest ending for the night.

The crowd cheered, and the three turned. Murderface commented on the “cute-lookin’ drummer,” and Nathan continued to shovel food into his mouth, uncaring of anything unrelated to his meal. Skwisgaar tried imagining the sort of man Magnus really was, whether he was aloof as he came off, or if he was merely waiting to see whether Skwisgaar was “stable” enough for him to engage. 

The waitress returned, this time with their drinks. Skwisgaar smiled at her, hoping to brighten her shift, maybe his night as well, but was met with a callous, off-putting stare. The strobing slowed, then ceased, fading to black. Just before the waitress vanished, her eyes glowed under the final strobe, and although her eyes were small and hazel, Skwisgaar thought he saw something large, brown and predatory flicker before the lights went out. Then the regular lighting phased back into existence, and she was gone, and so was the Magnus that frightened and sent an alarm up his spine, sending Skwisgaar on edge until the real one returned a few minutes later.

“Oh, goody, booze,” Magnus commented as he settled besides Skwisgaar. He surveyed the plate of nachos. “I see you’ve already helped yourselves.”

“I’m hungry.”

Murderface poured himself a cup. “What he said.”

“Of course,” Magnus replied sarcastically, then tossed his number card on the table.

Skwisgaar picked up one of the four neglected personal plates and offered it to Magnus, and after considering what Murderface had said before, smiled warmly at the older man. “Tanks,” he said, his smile widening when Magnus took the plate. Skwisgaar inched close, so that Magnus couldn’t miss the lidded stare in the dark bar, the batting eyelashes. “I hab never tries the lava cakes before. I ams lookinks forward to it.”

His voice was impeccably smooth. Skwisgaar feared it wouldn’t be heard with the music playing in the background, but under the plate, rough fingertips rubbed against his, and when Skwisgaar held his smile, felt Magnus’ middle finger on top of his own, sliding back and forth till it left a warm trail.

“Not a problem,” Magnus coolly replied, keeping a straight face above. “You deserve to celebrate, and that’s what I’ll make damn sure it happens, alright?”

Brown eyes glanced in Skwisgaar’s direction. The same curious stares from before, and in an instant, vanished as Magnus turned towards the pitcher. Skwisgaar retracted his hand, middle finger admittedly longing for that tender form of validation. 

He picked it up, gave the contents a gentle swirl, and smiled at Skwisgaar.

“Thirsty?” he asked.

Right in front of Murderface and Nathan, too. Under the dining wear, sure, but the touch, no matter how brief it was, told Skwisgaar there was more to the party than the promise of beer and chocolate cake. More importantly, it informed him he wasn’t the only one looking to celebrate a _personal_ victory tonight.

Feigning ignorance, Skwisgaar picked up his empty, plastic up, and offered it to Magnus. “Ja,” he said, and as the next song played, red light flashed above, revealing a tempting, devilish grin from Magnus.

* * *

The lava cake was exactly as Magnus described it. Half-baked chocolate cake with a thick, molten fudge center that burned the tip of Skwisgaar’s tongue and mouth. Skwisgaar didn’t think much of the gooey center, not even as hot steam poured forth. He’d been too preoccupied, distracted by the hand that rubbed his leg underneath the table. The roof of his mouth stung white as he searched for a relief not even Magnus’ probing hand could provide. Skwisgaar foolishly went for his beer, ignoring the single scoop of melting ice cream that accompanied it, and cringed at the foul combination of bitter and sweet floating in his mouth.

“To Skwisgaar!” Nathan randomly yelled while Skwisgaar suffered.

Equally unconcerned, Murderface wiped foam from under his nose. “Congrats on getting your green card!”

“Don’t spit it up on the table!” Magnus patted Skwisgaar on the back, letting the third subtly transition in a gentle rub as Skwisgaar swallowed and fell back into his seat.

With the remaining money Murderface stole, plus some ones from Nathan and Magnus, the band paid for their second round of drinks. Nathan made his departure, but not before Magnus handed him a five and begged for mozzarella sticks. Magnus then told Murderface a pair of C-cups in a dark green tube top was ogling him, efficiently removing Murderface from the scene. It was only a few minutes, but once they were alone again, Magnus asked what Skwisgaar planned to do once he had the card. The question threw him off guard, if only because Magnus’ eyes turned soft, voice almost inaudible with the music hammering in the background. 

“Stays here, I ‘spose,” Skwisgaar answered, scratching his head at the question. “Whats you mean, Magnus?”

“Nothing,” Magnus replied, giving a little shake before licking his bottom lip, then summoned a more appropriate smirk. “It was a stupid question. I should be asking you why the hell you’re leaving Sweden for this dump.”

Skwisgaar didn’t think it was stupid; not the questions, but the thick, heavy brows that sank under the pressure of the words, the lips that fought between forming a smile and frown. 

He thought to pry further, but Magnus already had a finger pointed at the half-eaten lava cake. “Finish your cake,” he said, looking away from Skwisgaar. “I paid nearly seven bucks for that.”

Murderface arrived not much afterwards, rubbing the side of his cheek. Fifteen minutes later, and another round of booze and cheese laden snacking, Magnus returned to Skwisgaar, greeting him with a kindness he only had the pleasure of witnessing once everyone was passed out in their beds. Full on flirtatious. Smiling. Beaming. He was resting on top of his elbow, asking Skwisgaar to tell him swears and sexual acts in Swedish, all while feeling him up underneath the table. The guys either didn’t notice, or didn’t mind it.

They pooled the remaining money they had for a final round before hitting the floor. It was getting late, and the names of the bands listed to play were starting to get interesting. Not as good as Dethklok, Magnus claimed and earned a friendly snicker from Murderface, but promising. 

“And let’s not pretend you didn’t check out their lovely guitarist,” Magnus whispered just as he slipped out of the booth, initiating a wet shiver across Skwisgaar’s warm body.

“Dude, female guitarists suck,” Murderface commented loudly as the two disappeared into the building crowds. “Their hands are too small to reach…”

They returned with a new number tent, with Magnus carrying an additional four shots of “good enough” whiskey for them to down. Skwisgaar figured the beer was more than enough. He wasn’t opposed to the idea of shots, but with a third glass already promised? And Magnus already spent money on an overpriced dessert, plus mozzarella sticks. Sure, he was currently employed, but at the rate he was going, there wouldn’t be much left for groceries and other necessities. 

“It isn’t Jack Daniels though,” Murderface complained. He made no mention of cost. Nathan didn’t seem to mind the careless spending either.

“Good tings,” Skwisgaar loudly announced, then stood up and took two shot glasses from Magnus. “It taste like shits, ja?” he said, handing a shot to Nathan, then holding the second in his hand up to Magnus before swirling the light amber liquid. “What dids you gets us, Magnus?” he asked, descending back into his seat.

This time, there were no lights on or live bands for Magnus to hide behind. But Nathan was busy eyeing the unfinished cake, and Murderface was ogling a pair of skirts passing by, which gave Magnus the small opportunity to gently click his glass against Skwisgaar’s, letting finger cross over his knuckles.

“Jameson,” he muttered, tickling Skwisgaar’s knuckles.

Nathan raised his glass. “Whatever, let’s do some fucking shots!” 

Under the table, a finger tapped Skwisgaar’s leg. One, two, three, then the entire palm slid upward, finding its way into Skwisgaar’s inner thigh, where it tested the boundaries and gripped the skin-tight fabric. Fingers dug into his muscle, and Skwisgaar had little chance to react to it, too busy swallowing whiskey and competing against Nathan’s vigorous appetite and Murderface’s insistence to make everything a damn competition. Because Magnus was true to the act, he expressed nothing once he slammed his glass down, exhaling a burning gasp alongside Nathan, while the easing grip left Skwisgaar choking on his.

“Hey Magnus. Magnus,” Nathan beckoned with a hefty wave. “Tell Skwisgaar that one funny racist joke!”

“Which one?” Magnus asked, attention turned completely on Nathan.

“The one with the asshole bartender with an accent.”

“Right,” Magnus said, then glanced at Skwisgaar, right arm shifting under the table. “You want to hear a joke?”

Wiping his eyes, Skwisgaar thinned his lips into a dry smirk. “Ja.”

Magnus rested his face on top his left palm, and Skwisgaar caught his left inching towards the shadows. “A Native, Armenian and Jew walk into a bar.”

“Hey, you think that girl is checking me out?” Murderface pointed to a redhead with glasses.

“She’s not checking you out, Will.” Magnus glanced his way, iris sharpening into small dots before returning to Skwisgaar, making an instant change and filling in with desire. “Right… where were we? The bartender takes one look at them, points at the Native and says, “Hey, _Jew_ can’t be here”.”

Nathan chuckled. “You’re gonna like this one Skwisgaar,” he said over the sound check and the girls giggling at a nearby table, but not enough to pull Skwisgaar away from the fingers now roughly tapping his leg. “It’s funny cause I’m the Native. That’s me.”

“The Native says to the barkeep, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not Jewish”,” Magnus continued, raising his voice over Nathan.

Nathan chuckled. “Cool, now tell him what the bar guys says to the Armenian.”

Magnus’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Don’t talk over the joke, _Nathan_.”

Murderface clasped his hands together. “Sweet, here’s round two!” he yelled out, causing Nathan and Skwisgaar to both look away, and Magnus to retract, falling to the cushion and crossing his arms in silent defiance. This time Skwisgaar didn’t bother with the waitress. He remained fixated on Magnus, watching his expression shift between one emotion to the next, and so fast Skwisgaar had no clue what to make of it.

“Hey, Magnus,” Nathan said while pouring himself a glass. “You really oughta add Skwisgaar to the joke.”

“Wouldn’t make much sense to do that,” Magnus replied stiffly.

“Jokes aren’t supposed to make sense,” Nathan retorted. “That’s why they’re jokes.”

Magnus’ right eye twitched. Skwisgaar swallowed as each individual digit ceased their playful movements, turning rigid and inflexible before vanishing from Skwisgaar’s inner thigh. “Nathan, do you want me to tell the joke, or not?” Magnus asked, bringing that hand up to interweave with his other, save for the index that remained erect and pressed against Magnus’ thinning lips.

“Well, yeah.” Nathan shrugged, not picking up on the differing attitude. “ _I_ just think–”

“Then you tell the fucking joke! _Alright?”_ Magnus shouted, voice roaring over Nathan’s and everything that blasted in the chaotic background. Murderface and Skwisgaar froze, too shocked at the sudden outburst to give a reaction. Skwisgaar himself couldn’t think what to say. The man almost leaped out of his seat. He yelled over the entire gang, rapid crowds and a live band.

Magnus hovered over the three, a wild, massive beacon that only shrouded everyone in darkness. His frown extended beyond his face. Emotion poured out of each iris, replacing that charming glimmer with heated rage. Those playful hands were shaking fists. And over a few interruptions, Skwisgaar thought. Magnus tore through the sounds like tissue paper, ripped through the pleasantries and spoiled a setting because of a ruined joke?

Then, much like the abrupt snap, Magnus blinked, eyes pulling away from Nathan, irises still shaking as they dropped behind a curtain of dark, wavy hair. His heaving chest slowed, fists unclenching, still trembling, and jaw and scowl slacking, easing into a face Skwisgaar recognized, once found handsome. He listened to each inhale, shaky and uneven, almost as though he were about to have a panic attack. Skwisgaar thought it was the case. He thought for sure that’s all it was, but then Magnus raised his head up, cheeks flushed and eyes filled with clarity, and Skwisgaar reverted to thinking of that intimidating figure that stood before them, and trembled.

Magnus exhaled heavily through his nose. “Looks like I ruined the joke for you,” he said, avoiding Skwisgaar. “Oh, well. Just my like, I suppose.” He slipped out of the booth, movement still stiff and unnatural. He was still on edge. Skwisgaar couldn’t explain how he knew, but the man disappearing into the crowd was not the same one that flirted with him all night long, that pushed buttons and tore at his own barrier.

“Magnus,” Skwisgaar said, raising a hand up. Should he go after him? Shouldn’t someone go after him? This had to be a different Magnus. A slip up. A bunch of anxiety from a night of teasing, mixed with too much booze and that stupid sense of pride all men relied too heavily on.

“Leave ‘em,” Nathan replied, stopping Skwisgaar with an arm. 

Skwisgaar frowned. “But he ims not okays?”

Murderface shook his head. “This shit happens. He’ll get over it.” 

“Murderface is right,” Nathan said, staring Skwisgaar back down to his seat. “Let him cool off. He’ll be back in a few hours.”

 _“Hours?”_ Skwisgaar parroted.

“Tomorrow afternoon at the latest,” Murderface interrupted, then pointed at the neglected cake. “You, uhh, gonna eat that?”

“You better share, Murderface.”

“Hey! Don’t be greedy!”

Skwisgaar continued to stare out into the crowd. There were waves of hands swinging and waving frantically in the air, bringing up a mist of concentrated heat and energy. Even with the massive crowds, the occasional red or white strobes eating up each person’s form, Skwisgaar knew there was a dangerous core–that Magnus was at the center. The man fled into the pit, either to let off steam or get lost in it, maybe as a punishment for making an ass of himself.

Just a bad mood, he thought. Magnus had been polite all night long. A small hiccup wasn’t worth hours of hiding in a violent crowd. 

Skwisgaar stood up. “I ams going,” he announced. Both glanced up at Skwisgaar. Murderface harbored a contemptuous stare, offended that Skwisgaar would ignore their advice to locate their bandmate. Nathan just stared, not quite annoyed, nor disdainful at Skwisgaar’s refusal to listen to reason. His jaw dropped a little, and lips parted, and Skwisgaar felt his defenses rise as Nathan continued to silently glare at him, read through his motives, and determine its worth.

“Fine,” Nathan said. “Your party. Your rules. Was gonna hit the floor anyways.” He snapped his thick neck, earning a loud, wet pop as Skwisgaar left the booth to join the mosh pit. “Just so you know, though,” he heard Nathan’s voice rip through the music, “he’s only going to get pissed at you for trying to help.” 

Bullshit. Nathan didn’t know Magnus. Magnus was a lot of things, but Skwisgaar knew him well enough to know Magnus wouldn’t do any of that. Magnus bought him a cake.

Skwisgaar hurried through the crowds, reaching the shadowy mass that took up the entire dance floor and then some. Even from the raised seating area, it was impossible to navigate where anyone was. Mosh aside, it was practically standing-room only. At the ground level, Skwisgaar could only make out shapes, hear cheers and cries and yells. No bouncy hair, long arms that swayed gracefully when succumbing to a rhythm, or dark brown eyes that glowed in the dark. There was no Magnus.

Where was Magnus? Skwisgaar stepped into the jungle, hands extended out, feeling through heavy bodies that couldn’t be coaxed or pushed aside. The music rang loud. Screams consumed his senses, blinding and confusing him in the process. He looked to his left, finding nothing but the tops of various crowns. Strobes flashed white and black, and on his right Skwisgaar saw hideous, eyeless sockets, and gaunt faces that yielded no expression. He recoiled back, hands gripping his queasy stomach. The vodka turned in his gut, mixing with oils and acids, making his head spin and hallucinate monsters where they didn’t exist. Someone pushed him. Skwisgaar stumbled, legs shifting out of place as he strained to regain his composure. The corners of his eyes started to burn from the hot, salty atmosphere, and when he tried looking up, had a red lamp turn on and shine down on him.

Without warning, he knew, and Skwisgaar turned around and saw Magnus just outside the red circle.

“Magnus?” Skwisgaar called, but couldn’t hear his voice through the band playing, and the screams they initiated with their music. He pushed through a line of bodies, breaching past and grabbing the man. “What the hells, dude? You snaps and leaves without–”

Magnus roughly pulled himself away, bringing an arm up and hoisting it up to his chest. Skwisgaar stepped back, arms spread as far as he could to show he meant no harm, but Magnus continued his contemptuous stare, glowering as the red started to rapidly flash above them. Nathan’s words echoed across Skwisgaar, reverberated through his shivering chest as he watched Magnus raise a second arm. He made the terrible mistake to withdraw, and dropped his arms against the two, angry white eyes flashing before him.

It was so loud, and the crowds and lights made it so hard to see. Skwisgaar didn’t pick up on Magnus’ parting lips, mouth forming frantic words to coincide with his janky movements. Only Skwisgaar couldn’t hear a word of it. Magnus was pointing at him, pointing at himself, raising a leg and stomping the floor and turning that finger inward to form a clenched fist. Magnus spit something harsh that Skwisgaar hoped wasn’t aimed at him, and he saw something twist in Magnus’ eyes, his teeth clench and his hands grip at his roots as he screamed into the void, raging and losing to the music and audience, and nearly to Skwisgaar. He tried nodding, hoped keeping eye contact might mean something, but ultimately couldn’t make sense of the misdirected anger. It was stupid, but Skwisgaar approached Magnus, trying his best to look past the anger, avoid the swinging arms until it was safe to grab them. As soon as he did Skwisgaar was met with a strength greater than his own. But Magnus was back to glaring at him, and Skwisgaar knew it was a terrible idea, but he stared back, eyelids drooping midway as he closed in on him. 

The kiss was brief. Magnus recoiled, yanking himself free from Skwisgaar, but was pulled in a second later. Skwisgaar grabbed him, ran a hand up his jawline, curling a finger behind the ear before inviting Magnus to come closer. The lights shimmered above. Magnus was terrifyingly beautiful under red. Skwisgaar could hardly make out the second Magnus realized how stupid he was being, but registered that shift in lighting once Magnus answered his call. An arm wrapped tightly around his waist, crushing that remaining space between them. Skwisgaar’s head throbbed from the noise, but somehow Magnus pressing his forehead against his own helped ease against the heavy trebles and rapid beats. It was impossible to tell where the vibrations of the music and stomping feet ended, and the profound, raw energy that still consumed Magnus, shook across him and blurred into Skwisgaar began. It was less a hug, and more a forgiving coil, with Magnus’ possessive hold on Skwisgaar unrelenting, not until Skwisgaar got over the shock of being ensnared, guided Magnus with a finger just before his chin, and enticed him further with a gentle stare.

Since Magnus initiated, it lasted longer. Skwisgaar had to admit, it wasn’t half bad letting Magnus take the lead. There was something rather exciting in being ensnared, held in place and kissed so passionately by someone who, moments before, looked like they wanted to raise hell. Maybe that was the appeal? Maybe the ladies weren’t so crazy? Whatever it was, it was nice. Skwisgaar liked being held, and weirdly enjoyed a greater heat pressed up against his own. He was small, but in a good way. The music ended, the lights coming alive as the band concluded, but Skwisgaar couldn’t think about getting caught, not when Magnus had his fingers playing up his neck, in his hair, combing, tangling, _pulling_ . Magnus held him like he didn’t want to let go, like he _couldn’t_ let go, like his life depended on it. Skwisgaar thumb rolled over Magnus’ cheek, wondering if he felt as delicate and small as he did right now, or if the thrill fed him a surge of pride. If he felt free, unafraid of the consequences.

The band left the stage, and people were cheering. Laughing. Watching.

Magnus parted from Skwisgaar, eyes already on the source of dread that currently reside above them. Skwisgaar turned, feeling what color he had drained from his face as more of the bar’s lights flickered on. 

“Ehm, maybes we should–”

“Let’s go,” Magnus said, already putting up a new act. He pushed through the crowds stopping after a few steps before looking over his shoulder and handing a short nod at Skwisgaar. “Well?” he asked, jerking upwards and giving Skwisgaar a startling and uncomfortable case of déjà vu. 

“Ja, I ims coming,” Skwisgaar said, and with Magnus' guidance, left the crowds and the Depths of Humanity.

* * *

Magnus refused to return to the booth, claiming he didn’t want to deal with whatever drama Nathan might have in store for him. It was a terrible lie, and both men knew it, but Skwisgaar was willing to let Magnus have this one if it meant figuring out what the hell happened earlier. Remembering what Nathan and Murderface said, he assumed them leaving the bar for fresh air wouldn’t be out of the ordinary, not if Magnus had a history of vanishing for hours.

“So, what ims the story?”

“Hmm?” 

Skwisgaar leaned against the bar’s brick exterior, eyes on the stars and ringing ears counting the rapid chirps from nearby crickets. Magnus was at a squat, playing with his lighter. His hands were still shaky, and it took the calm of the moon, fading street lights and him spitting a swear when the flame licked a finger for too long for Skwisgaar to realize things were still tense. He wasn’t one to make a big deal over a kiss, especially one shared with a friend and coworker, but kissing Magnus under the heated red lights, and right after being scared half to death, meant there had to be come conclusion to the night. Something good, to end the night on a positive note. Something to prove Skwisgaar right, and the other guys wrong.

“To the jokes?” Skwisgaar continued, watching a couple holding on to one another pass by the alley where they resided. “The ones where you ams all kicked outs for being unlikeskables to thems racist bartender?” 

Magnus stopped fidgeting with the lighter. “You knew the punchline?”

“Saws it a miles away,” Skwisgaar confessed. Magnus released a dry chuckle besides him, and Skwisgaar wondered if this was the right topic to be leading into. Shifting his weight to his left, he asked, “Did you all reallies meet a racist bartender with a funny accents?”

“No, Murderface pissed in their pitcher on a dare,” Magnus answered, reminiscing with a small smile. “By me, of course. We got kicked out, but I thought it would be funny if we turned it into a joke.” 

“You ams quite the jokesters,” Skwisgaar nervously remarked.

“I have my moments.” 

“Magnus?” Skwisgaar’s stomach filled with air. He wanted to shut his eyes, but knew he was too tipsy, and feared swaying into the man. “Was you reallies so upsets at Nathan?”

Magnus slowly picked himself up. “It was nothing,” he said, giving a slight shake. His thick hair cascaded over his shoulders, tricking Skwisgaar into believing the man was thinner than he was, smaller and less intimidating. “Just... a disagreement between friends.”

Skwisgaar wanted to believe it. “Okays,” he said, catching a brief glance of Magnus staring tiredly at him. “Y’know…ims funny. For a seconds, I tought you was goings to kick my ass.”

He chuckled. Skwisgaar hoped Magnus might do the same, but after a second, it was clear the man was second guessing himself. That uneasy feeling returned. Skwisgaar turned to the starlight, wishing it wasn’t so.

“Skwisgaar.”

“Ja?” 

“Now that you’re here, do you have any plans?” Magnus asked in a hushed voice. “Like, what do you intend to do now that you’re free to travel and do whatever you want for the next several years?”

Skwisgaar continued to look at the sky. “You asks me this in the bar.”

“Yes, I was hoping to see whether we might…”

Skwisgaar’s eyelids fluttered at the silence. He turned and saw Magnus still staring, ogling, eyes locked on him and overfilling with fear. What did Magnus see, he wondered? There were no strobes, no blaring lights, human forest and sweaty fog. There were no demonic shadows, no intolerant strangers that pushed them each way, or anyone that might pressure them to conform, but Magnus shrank from the question, bit his inner cheek and neglected to go any further, rejecting his own question outright.

He crossed his arms. “A stupid question.”

Crickets chirped, and a small group of drunkards stumbled past their alley. Skwisgaar remembered the Magnus that held him close, pulled him aside from everyone and whispered to him, asking him what he wanted for the night. It was his night, after all. This was supposed to be his celebration.

“Finish its.”

“What?” Magnus asked.

“It ims still my party,” Skwisgaar said, taking Magnus by the wrist. The warm lighter tickled his calm, and he encased it in Magnus’s hand, then held it tightly against his own. “I wants you to finish the questions.”

Magnus dragged his upper lip. Skwisgaar inched closer, taking his second hand and wrapping it over Magnus’ already trapped hand.

“I wanted to know,” Magnus said, voice dropping to a near whisper. His eyes darted to his left, to the streets and any potential onlookers. Skwisgaar squeezed his hand, calling him back. Magnus sighed, clenching his teeth at the demand. “Fuck,” he said, “I thought, maybe now that you’ll be here longer…we could perhaps, _I don’t know_ , find more time to spend with one another?”

What a shitty way to ask someone out. Skwisgaar would’ve laughed at it, but knew he’d get a more satisfying response if he continued to push Magnus in the right direction.

“Likes, right now?” Skwisgaar asked, challenging Magnus with an uninformed shrug.

 _“Actually_ ,” Magnus said, carefully pitting his stare against Skwisgaar’s. “I was hoping we might find time during the day to hang out. Y’know, whenever our schedules line up.”

Nathan’s voice warned him against it, and the stuttering and nervous way Magnus continued to observe his surroundings, fearing what may lie ahead, only further proved Skwisgaar knew less about the man than he originally thought. But in that same light, showed Skwisgaar how awkward and flustered the man could get, which strangely made up for how frightening Magnus also proved to be, how unpredictable. A gut feeling told him this wasn’t a great idea, that it ultimately went against his better interest. This was more than just a coworker, it whispered, but Skwisgaar shirked it. He tossed it, along with Murderface’s and Nathan’s comments, that instant where he fought against an emotion that could’ve easily knocked him unconscious, and traded it in with a smile. He earned two eyes staring deep, pupils easing under the faint light, and thin, dry smile that dared not to appear too relieved.

The feeling never left, though. Not after Skwisgaar dropped a hand to beckon Magnus, and only doubled down when Magnus gripped him, yanked him into his form and laced his forehead with rushed, heavy kisses. It grew each time Magnus departed, returned and deepened their venture. It took Skwisgaar on a ride, spinning his world and making him rely on the larger man as he lost control, holding on for dear life, until he had to rely on being pinned against the cool brick wall just to stay afloat. The world danced, and his vision blurred, and Magnus treated his lips so well, touched Skwisgaar so deep that whenever it ended a tickle emerged, begging for more. They kissed under moonlight, the perfect way to conclude the night, but no matter what sweet compliments Magnus whispered into his ear, what sultry promises he had to look forward to once they made it to the apartments, the dread never subsided.


End file.
